


Immortal Instruments

by Ariana (Ariana_El), Levade



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU of sort, Action, Adventure, Gen, reborn elves sent to ME for help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-06-07 12:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15219167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariana_El/pseuds/Ariana, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Levade/pseuds/Levade
Summary: The Valar work mysterious ways and it is not up to the Eldar to question them... unless you have to deal with reborn Fëanaro.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea appeared in some conversation and sending Feanor along with Glorfindel to Middle-earth was too much fun not to try and write it. We're working on the story together.

Chapter I

 

_Valinor, 1603 S.E._

 

The ship was almost ready to depart, but they were waiting for the Maia to join them. As Glorfindel did not know the mariners, he opted for staying at the deck. Olórin was certainly taking his time...

Finally he came, but he was not alone.

"No." Glorfindel stated firmly and crossed his arms, as he saw an elf following the Maia.

"I beg your pardon?" Asked Olórin’s companion with feigned politeness, stepping swiftly on the deck, with a bag over his shoulder and a sword by his side.

"I said _'no_ '."

" _’No’_ as stating negation, as _'I'm not coming'_ , _'I'm not going to work with you'_ _or 'that was not part of the deal_ '?" The new elf looked at Glorfindel arrogantly. "Frankly, I don't care which, as it wasn't my idea either."

"I think you are done with the pleasantries." Olórin interrupted them. "I'm sorry, Glorfindel, but I'm afraid that is the Valar's decision. Whether you like it or not, Fëanaro is coming with us."

***

"I despise ships."

"You know, you could have gone across the ice," suggested Glorfindel friendly, leaning against the railing. He had to admit that the mighty Fëanaro hanging over the side and throwing up his breakfast was quite a sight.

"I would, if it was still an option," grumbled Fëanaro as he sank down the railing and hid his head between his knees.

"You elves can be peculiar," they heard suddenly. Glorfindel turned and Fëanaro raised his head reluctantly and they both stared.

The voice was Olórin's, but the Maia changed. He took a body like an elf, only a very odd one. His hair was long and grey, so was his beard. He had ridiculously long eyebrows and his keen eyes were sparkling with mirth. His skin was wrinkled and only after a moment of staring did Glorfindel realise where he had seen such skin. Olórin looked a lot like the aged Secondborns Glorfindel had a chance to see during Nirnaeth.

Fëanaro clearly had no reference, as he continued staring, all his seasickness forgotten.

"WE are peculiar?" He asked with a hint of amusement.

"You know, you two could try to get on, instead of bickering and throwing insults at each other. At least you have something in common."

"And that would be?" Glorfindel arched his eyebrow questioningly.

"Well, you are both Noldor who went to Middle-Earth and were slain by a Balrog."

The remark left both elves speechless. Olórin chuckled and walked away.

"At least I managed to kill mine," muttered Glorfindel and he followed the Maia, leaving Fëanaro to his sea loathing.

***

“So? How was it?”

“Don’t talk to me,” grumbled Fëanaro from his spot, where he was clutching a bucket and seemed unwilling to make a slightest move.

Glorfindel had none of it. He sat cross-legged in front of his companion and regarded him with visible interest.

“Olórin did tell us to get along,” he reminded him happily. “So? The Balrogs. Was there more than one? I’ve heard so.”

“Many. Too many,” admitted Fëanaro. “You?”

“One. He dared to grasp my hair!” snarled Glorfindel, heated by sudden anger at the memory of the fiery hands grabbing his golden hair. “We fell together.”

“Lucky you.” Fëanaro summed up. “At least it was quick. I wasn’t so fortunate.”

***

Numenor was stinky. That was Fëanaro's first impression. Stinky and noisy, with people all over, yelling at one another, haggling over fresh catches and others yelling orders. He shook his head as they pulled into a berth. "So these are the Secondcomers."

"They prefer Edain, or Men," Olórin  told him. "And they are a power in this Age, Fëanaro. Their ships sail all points of Middle-earth."

"Fascinating," Fëanaro said, clearly bored. "Can we get off this ship now?"

Glorfindel stood at the stern, staring at the scene before him in fascination. "This is the island the Valar raised for the Faithful."

"Faithful to what?"

"Did you not look at any of the tapestries in Mandos?" Glorfindel sighed at the scowl he was given in answer. "They were faithful to aide our people in the fight against Morgoth."

"And they got an island." Fëanaro crossed his arms. "All our eons of faithfulness and we get exiled and doomed."

"You are hardly doomed now, Fëanaro." Olórin  walked to the plank, now in place, and turned to meet the elf's gaze. "Merely sea sick. Come, we must find a ship willing to take us to Middle-earth."

Glorfindel walked past him and said, "And don't make the Men mad or we'll be swimming to Middle-earth."

"I might prefer it to another wretched ship."

Smiling, though it was anything but friendly, Glorfindel shrugged. "Best get started then. It's a long journey."

Deciding that firm ground was worth it, Fëanaro followed them off the ship. He immediately felt relief from the constant swaying of the ship and looked around as they walked. The architecture was not half-bad, though clearly they had taken some inspiration from elves. The soaring archways and graceful turrets of a nearby building echoed a style he had seen in Tirion, before being hurried along.  The ships were enormous, far larger than necessary, he thought. Musing aloud, he said, "They look nothing like the ships of the Teleri."

"You would know," Glorfindel said, and scowled. "Try not to burn any of these."

****

Olórin  left the two elves in front of a tavern, with strict instructions to wait for him to return. "I don't need either of you making some pithy comment about their ships that ends up having us stuck here," he said, leaving two very disgruntled elves to fend for themselves.

"Something smells good." Glorfindel studied the tavern and decided it looked decent enough. "Let's go see what they're serving."

"Fish," Fëanaro guessed and looked at the sign, which showed a ship that had beams of light around it. "What language is that?"

"Westron. It says 'The Swanky Star." He watched Fëanaro, who noticed and arched one eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Not going to snap and make a grab at the sign, are you?"

Fëanaro pushed past Glorfindel and opened the tavern door. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

With a cheerful smile, Glorfindel followed. "We'll see about that."

***

Seafood was the prevalent food in the pub, served in many ways, though the baby octopus was too much even for Glorfindel. After satisfying their hunger, the two elves sat in a corner table and waited for the return of Olórin.

Glorfindel decided the local brew had to be tasted and a buxom serving girl brought the pints to them, giving them both a saucy smile before returning to her duties. Fëanaro sniffed at the foam, before taking a small sip. "Not bad, though it could use more aging of the -"

"Did you ever try Dwarven ale?" Taking a long drink, Glorfindel set the pint down and smiled in memory. "Incredible drinkers, and singers, as well."

"I died before I saw any of the peoples of Middle-earth."

"Right." Shaking his head, Glorfindel took another drink. "Too bad. They are incredible smiths."

Fëanaro's smile was more of a smirk. "Let me be the judge of that."

"So what brings you back to Middle-earth?" Catching the eager eye of the serving girl, Glorfindel gestured for a refill.

Sitting back to observe the humans in the tavern, Fëanaro wondered what he had been so worried about all those eons before. They had a lovely island and certainly had worked to make it nice, but from what he understood they lived no more than a handful of decades and grew weak and weary near the end of their days. He watched a grey-haired man, did he really have no teeth, smile at a companion and shook his head. "Perhaps that is between myself and the Valar."

"No." Glorfindel thanked the girl for his second pint and pushed the other one towards Fëanaro. "Their ways might be odd, and take it from someone who spent summers in Valinor, they are most decidedly not like us, but they are not capricious." He studied the foam of his ale and grinned. "All right, Yavanna is. I mean, look at some of the creatures she created! Have you ever seen a hedgehog?"

"Is it some sort of porcine?"

Finding that hilarious, Glorfindel laughed. "No, no...I don't know why they are named pigs, perhaps the snout. They are little balls of spines with great dark eyes and soft bellies and they are absolutely adorable."

"Adorable." Fëanaro had to wonder just what the people of Gondolin were doing if one of their great warriors found a pig of a sort 'adorable'.

"Just wait until you see one." Glorfindel finished the pint and offered a brilliant smile when presented with another, brimming full. "Adorable."

"They have spines." Fëanaro finished his pint and started on the next. "How can that be adorable."

"Adorable," Glorfindel insisted. He leaned an elbow on the table and stared at his companion. "Spill it. Why are you going back."

"Why are you?"

Waving a hand, Glorfindel sat back. "Made a promise to Turukáno. Well, Elenwë, actually, but it's all the same."

He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "What promise?" Was there an unending supply of these pints? Fëanaro counted at least five for himself and Glorfindel, but surely they had not been sitting that long, talking?

Glorfindel stood and put his fist to his chest. "To defend her children and their children and so on and so forth." He sat down and picked up his fresh pint. "Rather short-sighted really. Should have only promised to protect her children."

"How many descendents are there?"

Counting on his fingers, Glorfindel began to list them. "Idril, who truly needs no defending, but Elenwë could hardly know that, since Idril was just a child. Eärendil, who is up in the bloody sky, so he most definitely does not need *my* help. Ah, but he had two sons, Elrond and Elros." He nodded sagely, as if imparting some great wisdom. "Those are..." Glorfindel frowned. "No, wait. I believe Elros is ...yes. He's dead."

"Dead?" Fëanaro blinked, trying to follow the muddled family line. "Then who are you going to protect?" He snorted a laugh. "Did a pretty shoddy job at it so far haven't you?"

"I'm not there yet, am I?" Rather than taking offense, Glorfindel laughed. "Elrond!"

Heads turned in the tavern at the booming voice, and several people stared.

"The other son of Eärendil," Fëanaro guessed.

"Yes, yes. He's alive. With Gil-galad in Lindon, but..." Pushing his hair back, Glorfindel gestured, spilling ale on the table. "What if he doesn't want to be protected? Heard he's quite deadly." He gestured towards Fëanaro. "Your sons, Maedhros and Maglor, they trained them, or so I heard."

Fëanaro stared at his drink at the mention of his sons’ names. "Maglor might yet be alive," he said quietly.

"Alive!" Thumping his pint down, Glorfindel hit Fëanaro on the shoulder, hard enough to make him slosh his drink. "That is a good thing, Fëanaro!"

Pulling his now soaked tunic away from his skin, Fëanaro grimaced. "Yes, I hope so."

"You think he won't wish to see you?" Glorfindel blinked. "You're his atar."

"Yes, and I made them swear that dammed oath."

Sobering a bit at the bitter tone, Glorfindel frowned. "They were old enough to make choices, Fëanaro. We all were, even if we were caught up in the fear and chaos."

Shaking his head, Fëanaro raised his drink and drank it in one mighty gulp, slamming it down on the table. "I will do what I must to find my son!"

Glorfindel grinned. "That's the attitude!"

"And Curvo's son!"

"Wait." Glorfindel pursed his lips. "There are going to be three of you lot running about Middle-earth now?"

"You lot?"

Flapping a hand, Glorfindel smiled lazily. "Don't get your trousers twisted. I liked your sons, though Curufin always had a stick up his-"

Fëanaro interrupted as memory hit him. "You were one of Findis' children."

"Still am as far as I know."

A blink, then another. "We are related."

"Yes, but we're all related in some way, you know." Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "Inbred lot, aren't we? Marrying cousins and -"

"Your mother."

"Still in Valinor. Never going to leave."  Glorfindel grimaced. "Was terribly angry at me about leaving again." He met Fëanaro's gaze. "Bet Nerdanel was none too pleased with you."

Fëanaro's lips thinned. "They would not let me speak to her."

"WHAT?" Standing, Glorfindel reached over and pulled Fëanaro up. "We can go back. It's not too late. We shall find a ship and -"

"And what, Glorfindel?" Fëanaro shook his head. "My sons are still in Mandos. Why would she welcome me back?"

Glorfindel slowly nodded and followed Fëanaro out the door, to sit next to him on a bench not too far from a fountain. There were children playing in the fountain, pushing small boats around and laughing as they splashed one another.

"I miss my sons." Fëanaro watched the children with the hungry gaze of a father too long denied the company of his beloved children. "I have so much to say to them."

"Might want to just listen this time," Glorfindel pointed out and shrugged at the glare shot his way.

"Talk to me when you have sons."

"What if I have only daughters?"

"There you two are."  Olórin  smiled as he came closer, eyes twinkling. "Enjoying the local customs?"

"Just a few." Glorfindel stood and smiled at the children. "That fountain looks lovely."

"Stay here with me."  Olórin  grabbed his arm to keep him from going to the fountain. "Our ship departs in an hour."

"Lovely." Fëanaro stood slowly. His head was pounding, the sun was too hot, and Glorfindel was singing some absurd children's song about bottles on a wall. It was annoying.

"Oh..."  Olórin 's smile widened. "It will be."

***

In hindsight, Fëanaro mused how in Arda  Olórin  managed to drag the two of them all the way to the ship. Glorfindel was absurdly cheery and ready to wander off to whatever caught his attention, be it a statue, a market place or another tavern. Personally, Fëanaro would not mind the last option, as it would probably not be so terribly bright. He wholeheartedly hated the white stone used for most of the buildings; it was blinding. So, as awful as the prospect of boarding another ship was, he followed  Olórin  in false hope of finding a quieter place there. Less stinky, if possible.

Now he wondered just how muddled his mind must have been to think it a good idea. The ship was noticeably bigger than the Teleri one that had brought them to Númenor, but it was also impossibly crowded and loaded with various goods. As soon as they left the harbor, Fëanaro realized he missed the neat Teleri boat. At least he had a cabin of his own there. In here, the only possibility of catching a ship to Middle-earth on such a short notice meant sharing. With Glorfindel.

Thankfully, he stopped singing, but it was a small mercy. The ship swayed more violently and as Fëanaro noticed with grim satisfaction, this time his companion too wasn't indifferent to that.

Oh, not good. So very, very, very not good. Fëanaro clutched his arms tightly around his belly, willing it to stop rebelling. His stomach cramped, threatening him yet again to throw up all the good stuff they had had in the tavern. And damn, it hurt! Fëanaro closed his eyes, hoping in vain that at least the pounding in his head would lessen.

"What was in that ale?" he groaned and curled. "Do Aftercomers poison strangers?"

"Do kindly shut up," grumbled Glorfindel from his berth. "Trying to sleep here."

"Not drinking with you again," stated Fëanaro through his gritted teeth. "Should have swam."

"Shut. Up."

"You were nicer," Fëanaro reminded him, trying to establish if it was better to keep his eyes open or closed. "Wanted to go back to my wife."

"Too late for that now." Glorfindel sighed and sat up slowly, wincing at the pounding in his head. Númenórean ale was strong, or he was no longer used to drinking. Both, probably. "I'm going to fetch water. Want some?"

"Yes, please."

With his companion gone, Fëanaro rolled from his berth and grasped the bucket  Olórin  was nice enough to leave him. Even the best dinner was not worth suffering. And had he already mentioned he despised ships?

***

"Where are we?"

"This is the last remaining part of Beleriand."  Olórin  remained in the small boat in which they had rowed out from the main ship. "Ossiriand. This is what used to be the River Thalos, that is what is left of Erin Luin and to the north, if you follow the coast, is Harlindon, where you shall find many of the Sindar."

"Where are the Noldor," Fëanaro asked. "Where is this High King's seat?"

Pushing off, and letting the boat bob in the tide, Olórin  raised his hand. "Farewell. Go north, Fëanaro. There you will find Lindon where Ereinion Gil-galad is building a city, and across the Gulf of Luhn, Mithlond, the home of Círdan's folk."

"So much has changed," Glorfindel murmured, looking at the mountains. "This used to be a land of rivers and mountains that we wondered long what would be found on the other side."

Watching the men row against the surf, Olórin  looking quite merry, Fëanaro shook his head. "I would not know." Seeing Glorfindel staring out at the sea, he nodded. "They sank it all, did they not?"

"I was dead. I never saw the War of Wrath but I have read of it." It was incredible to see how much was gone now beneath the waves. "They raised a land for the Faithful and sank ours."

"Namo said the taint of Morgoth was too strong and their battles with him too destructive for the land to survive."

Shaking his head, Glorfindel snapped out of his introspection and gestured. "We go north to find the High King of the Noldor."

"In Middle-earth."

With a smile, Glorfindel nodded, and began walking. "Of course. Finarfin is High King of the Noldor in Aman!"

Glaring at the golden-haired elf, Fëanaro followed. "Who inhabits these lands?"

"No idea. But how bad can it be this close to the elven cities?"

Those words would turn out to be poorly chosen, but they both had trusted  Olórin  to put them down in a safe place.

Perhaps they had forgotten during their long rest in Mandos' Halls that the Valar and Maiar do have the oddest senses of humor at times.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II

 

The first three days of their journey were uneventful, boring even. After carrying their belongings for a day, Glorfindel decided to trade for horses in the first village they met on their way. The animals were far from magnificent, but they were both strong and mild-tempered, ready to carry their riders to civilization, so neither of the elves was going to complain.

Now that they were finally alone, just the two of them without the ever present Maia, Glorfindel wondered how they were going to get on. He didn’t really feel the need of having Fëanaro as his companion, but their purposes were probably similar and their road went the same direction. Soon he realized he didn’t mind, as it was more pleasant to travel with a companion.

Once they were off the swaying ship, Fëanaro’s mood improved noticeably. He was still secretive about the reasons of his coming back to Middle-earth, aside from willing to search for his son, but as it quickly turned out, he knew little about the lands and what he was going to encounter. He didn’t want to share many details about his deal with Námo, but Glorfindel gathered that he didn’t have any say in the decision of being sent back. Nor did he have time to prepare himself for the journey. Being more informed, Glorfindel soon found himself sharing what he knew about the current kingdoms and the situation in Middle-earth.

Fëanaro looked put out when he heard that Quenya had been banned a long time ago and that most of the elves spoke Sindarin. He did not know that language, but he was determined to learn as much as he could before they reached any elven cities, so they spent most of the days speaking Sindarin. Fëanaro was quick at picking up the words and grammar structures, finding common parts with Telerin and other languages he already knew.

It was fine until arrows flew suddenly from between the trees and they learned the hard way that Middle-earth was still not a safe place after all.

***

What happened next was a blur. Old instincts kicked in and Glorfindel was off his horse with his sword bare in his hand before he knew it. The arrows had been shot from a very close distance and whoever was shooting clearly thought they would hit at first try, for none of the attackers shot a second arrow. Three men appeared between the bushes, but seeing the elven warrior charging furiously at them, they panicked and turned back, running away. Glorfindel followed them for a few moments, but as he made sure they were not going to face him, he turned back to look at Fëanaro.

“Oh, blast it, no,” he cursed under his breath and ran towards his companion. It would be ill luck indeed if he managed to lose him so soon after arriving in Middle-Earth, no matter how undesirable his company was at first.

Fëanaro was lying on his side, shuddering and gasping painfully, which Glorfindel welcomed with some kind of relief he wouldn’t acknowledge. At least he was alive then. It would do no good to any of them if he wasn’t.

Unfortunately, that left Glorfindel in charge of seeing that his companion would not return to Mandos. The golden elf winced as he saw the dark arrow stuck right below Fëanaro’s left collarbone and his already blood-soaked tunic. What was he to do? He knew the basics, of course, but he was no healer. However, it didn’t look like it would do Fëanaro much difference.

“T-take it out,” hissed Fëanaro through his gritted teeth.

“Wait. I’ll be right back,” ordered Glorfindel firmly, as if his wounded companion would move. He returned to his horse and fished out the supply pack Olórin had given him before they parted. He was  _not_  removing the arrow without having something to stop the bleeding within reach.

With no hopes for having someone else deal with the ungrateful task, Glorfindel started to work. Fortunately for both of them, Fëanaro passed out long before he was finished, sparing Glorfindel his painful cries as he tried to remove the arrowhead.  It went deep and got stuck, crushing part of the collarbone on its way. Part of the damage, Glorfindel had to admit, was his own doing. He had little experience with removing arrows from something other than a dead animal and it proved to be a slow and slippery business.

Maneuvering semi-conscious Fëanaro in the saddle turned out to be even more problematic. Glorfindel was very well aware that riding was a bad idea, but they had to move away from the place where they were attacked, if just a bit. Seeing that the wounded elf was barely able to stay in the saddle, Glorfindel decided to walk beside him instead of mounting his own horse.

***

There was no way they could continue journey that day. Fëanaro might not have said much, but his spirit was radiating with pain and Glorfindel couldn’t really pretend he didn’t feel that. Fëanaro tried to keep silent, but an occasional moan escaped his lips whenever the horse jolted him too much. When he said quietly that he could feel the blood running down to his trousers, Glorfindel stopped.

He helped his companion down and eased him onto the ground. Fëanaro was more cooperative this time, bless the Valar. Once they stopped moving, he seemed more lucid and relieved, so Glorfindel let him be for the time being and went to see about a good place to camp for the night. He collected some wood and brought fresh water. Working silently, he kept glancing at his companion from time to time.

Fëanaro sat propped against a tree. His face was ashen and his eyes muddled.  So much for the Spirit of Fire, mused Glorfindel grimly. His companion placed his unfocused gaze on the small fire he made and stared, shivering from time to time and wincing at the slightest movement. What worried Glorfindel most was the silence. For all that accursed sea voyage Fëanaro would not stop cursing the damned ship or the swaying. Now he was utterly still and silent, and it didn’t look like a good sign.

Having made the camp ready, Glorfindel put into the hot water some herbs he found in the package and kneeled by the wounded.

“Here. Perhaps it will help for the pain.”

“Perhaps?” Fëanaro glanced at him tiredly.

“Olórin said it would be useful,” replied Glorfindel. “At least it will do you no harm to try.”

Fëanaro took the mug with his good hand and sniffled the contents.

“Aye. Smells like something Tyelko would prepare when he had some misfortune at the hunt,” he said quietly and drank the whole mug without even wincing. “So, what happened?" asked Fëanaro, pulling his blanket tightly around his shoulders and leaning his head back against the tree. "I admit my recollection is kind of muddled."

"Pff." Glorfindel shrugged. "I think they wanted to rob us. They shot you, missed me. Lucky for me, not for them. They ran away," he answered while searching for the remains of the previous night's dinner that would serve them as a meal tonight.  He doubted his companion was in the mood for cooking.

Fëanaro disregarded most of the food in favor of more water.  He ate little, but he seemed more awake and some color returned to his cheeks.

"I thought it would be a more civilized road," muttered Fëanaro. He shifted and winced slightly, but then sat more upright. "Can you help me change? There's a hole in my tunic and I'd like to mend it tomorrow."

"Can't it wait till morning? And I'd say it's ruined anyway," replied Glorfindel, glancing dubiously at the fabric he had ripped to get access to the wound.

"It will be fine. And it should be dry in the morning."

Talkative again, thought Glorfindel with a hint of amusement, but he was relieved that Olórin's medicine was working. He wasn't exactly looking forward to traveling with a semi-conscious Fëanaro. It had proved to be quite troublesome.

"You want me to wash it for you as well, then?"

"Do you mind? I'm usually perfectly capable of tending to myself, but right now I'm a bit dizzy I'm afraid."

"Fine. But then you go rest, so we can go on tomorrow."

In the end Glorfindel washed both Fëanaro's and his own tunic, as he too was covered with more blood than he was comfortable with. He had to admit Fëanaro's bright red served him well this time. There was still a long tear in the fabric, but the blood stains were hardly visible. He could not say as much about his own. Sighing, Glorfindel hung both shirts near the fire to dry and settled in to keep watch.

***

True to his words, Fëanaro worked on his shirt the next day. They rode slowly to make the journey more bearable for him, so he used the opportunity and started mending. He kept the fabric still on his wounded arm and worked carefully with the other. Glorfindel found it hilarious, but he decided not to comment, as it worked perhaps as a kind of distraction from pain. And, blissfully, kept Fëanaro silent.

But it wasn't just simple mending. Before Glorfindel knew it, there was a thick golden seam going along the rip and putting the pieces together. The uneven line then spread into several smaller lines, creating a seemingly random mess, but as Fëanaro worked, the lines turned into branches, which created a background for a golden-crimson star.

"This is an interesting approach to mending a shirt," commented Glorfindel, no longer able to restrain himself.

"It's good to be able to actually DO something," Fëanaro shrugged and winced at the reckless move. "I'd rather go to the forge, but I guess I have to settle for this for now."

***

Harlond was very much a Sindarin city, with gracefully twisting designs and knots worked into intricate designs. There were many animal and nature motifs in the designs, and if a city could be said to work well with the trees and rocks around it, Harlond had been built to accentuate nature, not steal away its beauty.

Fëanaro and Glorfindel rode along a coastal road where, far below, the ocean broke against huge boulders at the base of a rocky cliff. There were a few vessels bobbing in the water, most of them with a swan design worked into the bow of the ships. “This must be the Telerin side of the city.”

Looking around to gain his bearings from the maps he had studied in Aman, Glorfindel shook his head. “This, I believe, is where Artanis and Celeborn have gathered their people.”

“Artanis is more Noldorin than many Noldor I know.” Fëanaro remembered his fiery niece, and how proud she had been.

And how unfriendly to him.

Glorfindel snorted. “I crossed the ice with her, you know. You don’t have to tell me about her. She married a Sindarin prince.”

“That surprised me.”

“Surprised us all,” Glorfindel agreed. “Then again, he is a prince.”

“Of a kingdom no longer around.” Fëanaro shook his head. “You are a prince as well.”

“And you are a king.”

“Yet here we ride with no notice at all from those we pass.”

It was true, no one took notice of two strangers riding through the outskirts of the city. “I suppose after seeing the Host of the Valar and the Vanyar in all their glory we hardly garner any attention.”

“You Vanyar do like your gold.”

Glorfindel laughed. “This from the man who created the Silmarils?” He held his breath, hoping he had not pushed too far, too fast in being too familiar with Fëanaro, but the other elf just nodded and gave a wry smile.

“They were like nothing else though.” Fëanaro looked at his companion. “Did you ever actually see them?”

He almost said ‘before you locked them away like a jealous lover’, but held his tongue this time. “Once, at a festival.” The remembered beauty of the jewels in his mind’s eye kept Glorfindel silent for a long moment. “They were like stars come down from the heavens.”

Fëanaro nodded, looking pensive. “Thankfully, that is where the one is.”

Before Glorfindel could make an ill-advised comment about the hallowed jewels, he spotted a party of elves walking up the winding path that led from the sea to the road. Reining in his horse, he waited, but could not help the smile curving his lips. “We are about to have company.”

The elves had spotted them now and there was a flurry of conversation, before two of the company stepped forward, hand in hand, to walk towards the riders.

Fëanaro halted his horse next to Glorfindel’s and his expression became unreadable. Only his grey eyes showed the glint of fire as he watched the man and woman approach.

The pair stopped an arm’s length from the horses, and the woman stared as if Ulmo himself had appeared before them. “This cannot be.”

The man turned to look at her in surprise before turning his narrowed gaze upon the two riders. “Welcome to Harlindon, strangers. I am Celeborn, and this is my wife,--”

“Artanis Arafinwiel.” Fëanaro’s voice, resonant and rich, rolled over the sound of the sea below like a bell.

Glorfindel blinked, recognizing the power behind the voice, and watched to see how his cousin would react.

Galadriel’s chin rose, and she held herself like a queen. “Fëanaro. I did not expect to see you until the breaking of the world.”

“I doubt anyone did.”

Her gaze went to Fëanaro’s companion and her eyes widened slightly. “Laurëfindil?”

“Cousin.” Glorfindel bowed his head, eyes glinting. “You have done well for yourself. I paid for my deeds at Alqualondë in Námo's keeping, but it seems not all kinslayers and rebels are held to the same standard.”

Her eyes flashed and the man next to her stepped forward, scowling. “You would do well to mind your tongue, Noldo.”

Glorfindel merely offered an arrogant smile. “This must be Teleporno.”

Before the silver-haired elf could step forward, another elf grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Enough!” There was an unmistakable air of command around this elf, and his silver-blue eyes held ancient knowledge.

The beard held Glorfindel’s attention though. He stared as though an elfling, fascinated by the silver hair on the ancient elf's chin.

“I am Círdan, Lord of the Grey Havens.” His gaze swept over the two riders. “There will be no spilling of blood, do you understand, all of you? I care nothing for whatever history is between us all. You will not harm one another with aught but words.”

“This is Fëanaro!” Celeborn gestured and glared. “He burned the boats! He slayed-“

“Celeborn.” Galadriel moved to stand next to him, and put her hand on his arm. She met his angry gaze and held it. “Not here. Not now.”

Furious, Celeborn checked his anger, and swept a cold gaze over the riders. “I suggest you keep riding. You are not welcome in Harlond. I have no doubt Forlond will be far more welcoming to you.”

Fëanaro merely arched one eyebrow and watched as the pair turned and walked back to the other elves. They headed back towards the city. “That went better than I expected, actually.” He met the gaze of the ancient elf. “Should we also avoid your Grey Havens, Lord Círdan?”

A snort, and the silver-haired elf, shook his head. “I doubt you could.” His smile was odd. “You’ll be welcome enough, just be wary.” He looked to Glorfindel and shook his head. “Legends coming back to life. I don’t suppose Fingon is behind you?”

Glorfindel laughed. “Nay. No others that we know of.”

“Too bad.” Círdan turned and began to walk. “That son of his could use his father’s support!” He gestured. "Come with me, both of you. You need some information before you shock every soul in Forlond with your arrival."

Fëanaro frowned, but nodded. "Very well, but we cannot be delayed for long."

Shaking his head, Círdan began walking.

***

Círdan took them to his office in Harlond and gestured for them to be seated. "Before you hare off to bring tidings of why you were sent here, I want to talk to you both."

"The king probably already heard of our arrival." Glorfindel met the Shipwright's gaze. "You don't think Galadriel would send a message?"

"No more than I have." Círdan sat back and shook his head. "You will go to Gil-galad and ask for Elrond. He will take you to the king."

"That is why we are here."

"You're here right now." Swiveling in his chair, Círdan searched through a pile of parchments before pulling one out and spreading it on his desk. "We are here, in Harlond. Here is Forlond, the High King's city, and, across the water, Mithlond."

"Celeborn is the lord of Harlond?"

"He was, but no longer. He and Galadriel moved to Ost-in-Edhil some time ago." Another map was set atop the first and he tapped on an image of a walled city set high in the foothills of the mountains. Círdan's gaze settled on Fëanaro. "I'll not give you the entire history of the city, but suffice it to say Celeborn does not command but the Sindar there. The Noldor, they are the majority in the city, have another they look to as leader." Before Fëanaro could ask a question, Círdan held up his hand. "You'll get it from someone else. It's not my tale to tell. I will say that most of the Noldorin smiths who survived the War of Wrath are also in Ost-in-Edhil."

"What do they do so far from the main city?"

Círdan shrugged. "Ask Elrond."

"Elrond." Glorfindel leaned forward. "Eärendil's son."

"Then why are Artanis and Celeborn here?"

"Elrond is Eärendil's surviving son." Círdan stood. "The tale of Galadriel and Celeborn is best told by someone else. You should be off to Forlond. Go see Gil-galad.  Let him know why you're here." He eyed Fëanaro and the stiff way he was holding his arm. "And see a healer.”

Escorted out and shown the way to a ferry across the Gulf of Luhn, the travelers were silent for a while as they gathered their horses and boarded the ship. "He answered nothing."

"True, but he made it clear it was not his tale to tell."

"Another boat." Fëanaro grimaced. "I look forward to this journey being far away from the sea."

Glorfindel leaned on the railing and lifted his face into the wind. "I rather like it." He ducked as a seagull swooped past his head, barely missing a grab at his hair. "But perhaps it would be best to be done with water for a time."

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for wonderful reviews.  
> Perhaps this chapter will provide some answers... or cause more questions :)

Chapter III

 

By the time they reached Lindon, Fëanaro was done with embroidering and no one could tell the tunic had been half ruined before. They rode in undisturbed and mingled in the crowd on the streets. They decided to have a look around before going to what looked like the High King’s court.

The city was well organized and spacious, built mostly of stone, with occasional storages or stables made of wood and brick. The style was not entirely Noldor, but there was no mistake it was planned by Noldor architects. The other influences came probably both from the Sindar and from Men, and the overall effect was not chaotic, but rather interesting and refreshing. Glorfindel found half-timbered houses picturesque, with flowers hanging in colorful curtains from balconies and green ivy climbing up the pillars.

They passed a big market place and merchant houses and reached the part of the city occupied by craftsmen.

"I'd venture a guess that your grandson is somewhere within this city, or at least helped build it," remarked Glorfindel as they passed yet another forge bearing the all too familiar star upon the entrance.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Fëanaro smirked, doing nothing to hide his apparent pride.

If Celebrimbor was half as skilled as his father and grandfather, then Glorfindel had to admit the pride was rightly justified.

"Do you put that star everywhere?" he asked, simply to wipe that smirk from his companion's face. "Do you have one on your nightshirt as well?"

For a moment Fëanaro seemed genuinely surprised. "What for? My wife didn't need to be reminded who she married," he replied dismissively, but then the smirk returned. "Is that what you did in Gondolin, oh Lord of the House of the Golden Flower?"

"Want to check how fun it is to have both arms broken?"

"My shoulder is doing fine, thank you for your concern," scoffed Fëanaro. He had removed the sling before they reached the city gates, content with keeping his arm loosely on his lap. "Let's go find the king, shall we?"

***

Elrond rushed through the wide corridors of Ereinion's court after being called from some minor meeting concerning the new market place. He was only told that there were two strangers demanding to see the king and claiming it would be proper to introduce themselves to Gil-galad first. They had come from the West and they bore the light of those born long time ago.

"Celebrimbor!" called Elrond, as he spotted his cousin speaking with someone by one of the arched windows. "Come with me, if you please. Your knowledge may come in handy." Being much older than Elrond or Gil-galad, Celebrimbor was more likely to recognize the newcomers, if they were really as he was told.

"Sure," nodded Celebrimbor. He told his companion to wait for him in his study, then joined Elrond. "What's the matter?"

Elrond repeated him what he was told. He knew not what to expect, but if these elves had really come from the West, they could perhaps bring some message or...

"Don't look so troubled," said Celebrimbor merrily, spotting Elrond's concern. "Last time they came with a whole army, now you tell me there are just two of them. Surely the matter cannot be this dramatic?"

Elrond smiled back. "I hope so."

He led Celebrimbor through one of his private shortcuts and they arrived to the hall by one of the side doors. There was already quite a gathering, but it was easy to spot the strangers. They both wore rich, colorful clothes suitable for an official banquet, even if they were dusty from road. The elf on the left wore white and gold, covered partly by a dark green cloak draped on one shoulder. His face was fair, his eyes flickering with mirth and curiosity, and his spirit shone brightly. His golden hair were tied loosely in a practical manner.

His companion was dark-haired and a little shorter. He was clad in black and red, with golden embroidery on his tunic. Elrond could not see the whole of it, as he too had a cloak covering the part on his upper chest and shoulder. There was an aura of power around him. The elf stood unmoved, with his arms crossed, and waited with a hint of visible amusement. He was well aware of the commotion they both made and he clearly enjoyed the confusion, but the arrogant smirk was not what hit Elrond most. Though he was certain he knew none of those two, the dark-haired elf looked strangely familiar.

"Celebrimbor, is he not one-"

The smith halted mid-step and went white as a sheet. He stared at the strangers in shock and made a few unsteady steps.

"G-grandpa?" He uttered like an elfling.

The dark-haired elf turned as he probably heard familiar voice. The smirk was replaced by a genuine smile and the elf brightened in delight.

"Tyelperinquar."

Celebrimbor pushed past the gathered elves, all protocol be damned and forgotten.

“-one of your kin?” muttered Elrond under his breath and followed him without thinking, realization dawning on him.

Silence fell around them, as not only Elrond realized what Celebrimbor had said. If that was his grandfather...

"Tyelpe. I am so glad to see you," said the elf warmly in Quenya, oblivious to stares of the gathered elves. His companion stood silent, showing no more than polite interest.

Celebrimbor snapped from his reverie and found himself right before the stranger in a few long steps, but then stopped, as if suddenly aware of the crowd around them. He seemed lost, an uncommon sight of the master smith.

Seeing that, Elrond decided to step in before a disaster happened.

"You wished to see the king," he said politely in Quenya. "My lords...?"

"Fëanaro," the elf introduced himself casually, still smiling to his grandson.

"Glorfindel of Gondolin," added his companion. "Please lead the way."

Elrond was more than happy to use the sudden gasp he heard all around to take the guests to some more private place. Celebrimbor followed him without a word, but he kept glancing as if making sure the two Noldor were real.

Once they were alone, Fëanaro grabbed his hand and Celebrimbor couldn't hold it any longer. He tossed his arms around Fëanaro and closed him in a firm hug, too overwhelmed to say anything.

A quiet hiss made Elrond look at him in alarm, but Fëanaro just returned the hug, putting one arm around his grandson and holding him for a moment.

"Someone at last is happy to see you," remarked Glorfindel friendly, then glanced at Elrond. "And you are...?"

"Elrond. Please, come. I should like to inform the king about your presence before gossip reach him. News like that tends to travel fast."

"Not fast enough," chuckled Glorfindel, glancing at Fëanorians. "Otherwise you would have known we were coming."

Now that they stood side by side, Celebrimbor and Fëanaro were even more alike. The latter looked rather pale and Elrond's keen eyes spotted the way he held his left arm, trying to support his elbow discreetly.

"Celebrimbor, why don't you find our guests some fitting accommodation place while I go to the king?" suggested Elrond in a polite tone, but leaving no real place for discussion. "Then lead lord Fëanor to my chambers. I can see you are injured and I would like to take a look," he said to Fëanaro as he caught his inquiring glance. What surprised him was the sheer outrage visible under the mask of indifference.

"It's Fëanaro," hissed the elf angrily, but then took a breath and nodded. "We had some misfortune on our way, but I'm fine, thank you," he said dismissively.

"I insist, my lord." Elrond met his gaze without batting an eyelid.

"Elrond Eärendilion is one of our best healers," Celebrimbor joined in, interrupting the silent duel. "I'd trust him in these matters," he suggested.

"Very well. Lead the way, Tyelpe."

***

"Aren't you coming in as well?"

"No." Elrond found himself smiling at the golden-haired elf, and wondered at the ease he felt around him. Glorfindel seemed to emanate good will. "The king wishes to speak with you alone. Knock and enter. Ereinion will be waiting for you."

Watching as Eärendil's son walked away, Glorfindel resolved to seek him out another time. They had a great deal to talk about. But first... He knocked and waited, steeling himself to what might be an unpleasant interview. Or maybe he was wrong in thinking Gil-galad would be like Turgon. The king had become irritable and obstinate in the last days of Gondolin and had argued frequently with his advisors.

The end had almost been a relief. An escape from what had become an impossible situation.

Rousing himself from his thoughts as a voice beckoned him to enter, Glorfindel pushed the door open and entered the king's office.

It was not what he expected. Yes, it was mostly blue and there was Ereinion's emblem on the wall, but aside from the desk and scattered chairs, it was a simple room, well-lit by light streaming in from a balcony. The hushed roar of the ocean was a relaxing background.

 Gil-galad turned as he entered, and smiled. "Ah, Glorfindel. Come in and be seated. Would you like some wine?" Walking to a small table behind his desk, he took a decanter and poured red wine into crystalline cups.

"Thank you." Taking it out of courtesy, Glorfindel waited.

His silence seemed to surprise Gil-galad, but he smiled and sat, waving for his guest to sit as well. "Are you settled in comfortable quarters?"

"Yes. It's a nice room, thank you."

 Gil-galad almost laughed. This definitely was no toadying courtier, attempting to win his way into the king's good graces. "Good." He sat back and studied his guest. "You must understand my curiosity at your presence here. I have to wonder what the Valar mean by sending you and Fëanaro back to Middle-earth."

"Of course." Glorfindel gathered his thoughts, well aware that the king was attempting to be patient. But he wanted answers. He was concerned. That was very clear. "I cannot speak for Fëanaro, you understand."

"Yes, yes." Squelching his impatience, Gil-galad stood and toyed with the quill on his desk. "I assume you are able to speak for your own presence."

A slow smile curled Glorfindel's mouth. Sarcasm he could deal with. It was a Finweian hallmark. Still he made the king wait before speaking. "I was sent back to aid the people of Middle-earth in fighting the darkness."

"Mmhmm." Gil-galad twirled the quill. "Just that. Nothing specific."

The smile faded and Glorfindel's voice was quiet but resonated with power. "I am not here to win your war, your highness. Nor to even lead an army."

"Then why send back a fabled warrior?"

The frustration in the king's voice made Glorfindel want to sigh. He stood and set the goblet down before meeting the king's gaze. "I swore an oath long ago, and have yet to fulfill it."

Worry narrowed Gil-galad's eyes. "Not the Oath of Fëanor. The Silmarils-"

"Are safe from my attentions," Glorfindel assured him dryly. "My oath was to Turukáno and his wife, Elenwë."

"Turgon." Shaking his head, the king set the quill down. "How could that possibly cause your return?"

"Idril's son had two sons. One of them lives in your court."

"Elrond." Gil-galad sat. "You're here because of Elrond?"

"Not entirely."

"Speak plainly then, Glorfindel of Gondolin." The frustration was becoming anger, and the feeling that he was being made a fool. "What are your plans now that you are here? Will you shadow Elrond? He is my herald, you know. He hardly needs baby minding."

Glorfindel let the smile fade, his expression taking on a distant, haughty look. "Elrond is no child, and it is possible he will not accept my service, yet that is my aim." He drew in a calming breath and reminded himself that this king was not even as old as he himself had been when crossing the ice. The concerns of a kingdom weighed heavily on his shoulders. "I once served High King Turgon, your highness. He appointed me as an advisor, and seemed to find my advice sometimes to his liking." He allowed a wry smile. "I studied in Aman with some of the greatest minds of those times, and am no stranger to strategy."

"Yet you will not fight."

"I did not say that." He met the king's gaze, holding it. "I will not lead an army. But I will defend my people from the darkness." Glorfindel hesitated, wary to bring the other matter up, but he had sensed the Rings of Power as soon as he had set foot on the soil of Middle-earth. Doubtless Fëanaro had as well. "There are...valuable items of power that cannot fall into the hands of Sauron, your highness. To allow them to do so would mean enslavement for every being in Middle-earth and possibly all of Aman."

 Gil-galad's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, grey eyes sparking. "You think we cannot defend our kingdom?"

He almost laughed at the royal 'we'. Almost wept. It was too much like Turgon in his obstinate refusal to listen to Tuor. To Ulmo. "I would like to help in that defense, Ereinion Gil-galad. These lands were my home before you were born, and some of my people still walk these streets." He softened his voice. "I am offering my strength for your kingdom."

 _While it stands_ , his mind added, but he made sure the thought went no further than the walls of his mind.

 Gil-galad sat and drummed his fingers on the desk for a minute. "Why cannot the Valar be plain in what they are doing?"

The laugh came before he could think to stop it, and Glorfindel held up his hands to gentle the king's wrath. " Gil-galad, they are not like we are. They are...more. To state simply what they are doing is not in their nature." He shrugged. "Their intent is only good."

A snort. "Oh? So they send Fëanor here to let me deal with him rather than have him stir unrest in Aman?"

"Time in Mandos' Halls changes us all, your highness." No smile now, Glorfindel was somber. "He is one of the greatest minds, greatest craftsmen of all our people. He is not here to cause you trouble."

"Then why. Is. He. Here."

Glorfindel smiled and let his hands drop. "You will have to ask him. He did not share that with me, though I asked."

Rolling his eyes, Gil-galad stood. "I will. Do not doubt it." He turned away then, half-turned back. "Glorfindel of Gondolin."

"Highness." Glorfindel waited, prepared for anything.

"Do not go far. My heart tells me I can trust you but these days are dark and I must be wary."

"I understand."

 Gil-galad nodded. "Go find Elrond. And if you see Fëanor, let him know I wish to speak to him."

Glorfindel, hand to heart, gave a slight bow. "I will pass the message along." Yes, that was sure to go well - Fëanaro, once High King of the Noldor, being summoned as if he was any other elf. Glorfindel almost laughed as he left the office at the sheer frustration radiating from the king. Well, he would have to get used to it. Glorfindel was not about to spill _all_ of his secrets. Some were not meant to be shared, and certainly not with a king.

***

"I'm sorry you had to wait," said Elrond conversationally as he entered his study and found Fëanaro seated by the large table used sometimes for smaller councils. "You must understand your sudden appearance is a surprise to all of us."

"Of course it is," smirked Fëanaro. There was an arrogant smile playing on his lips, suggesting he was enjoying it. "I'm already past being surprised myself and I suggest you do the same, as I'm here already."

Elrond ignored the jibe and went to the cupboard where he kept some herbs.

"So, what is wrong with your shoulder?" he asked, trying to talk a bit first to get a glimpse of who he had to deal with. History and tales of times long gone were one thing. The elf sitting casually in his study was a completely different matter. "What kind of misfortune did you encounter on the road?" He placed the bowl with warm water he was holding on the table, along with a clean towel.

"Arrow shot. I believe your scouting parties are doing a poor job keeping the roads safe, assuming you do have some patrols. I guess we were attacked by some thieves. Edain."

Fëanaro kept speaking in Quenya, either unaware of Thingol's old ban that made Sindarin the spoken language, or ignoring it on purpose. Or, as it suddenly occurred to Elrond, he simply didn't know the language.

"I'll pass the news and the roads will be checked. We have not had any information about robbery attempts in quite some time." Knowing what to expect now, Elrond took an ointment and gestured his guest to take off his tunic. Seeing that Fëanaro could not lift his arm, he helped him and uncovered the wound. It was a little swollen, but looked clean, unlike the bandages he removed.

"What brings you here, my lord?" Elrond placed his hands carefully on both sides of the wound to relax the tensed muscles and ease the pain he could feel.

"Is that an interrogation while I'm sitting here at your mercy, defenseless?" Fëanaro leaned back a bit and glanced up at Elrond.

"You are hardly defenseless, my lord," replied Elrond calmly. "And it is not my custom to take advantage of those who seek my help."

"I did not ask for it," Fëanaro pointed out, but leaned back to the touch and relaxed.

"Perhaps you did not, but it will do you good," Elrond just shrugged. "As will keeping that arm supported for the next ten days or so."

Fëanaro didn’t look too happy, but he stayed obediently still as Elrond prodded the wound a bit more, then put some healing herbs and covered it with fresh, clean dressings.

"Thank you." Fëanaro bowed his head slightly. "After being in Mandos for so long, I must say all sensations are much stronger," he admitted. He accepted Elrond's help to dress back and for a while they were both silent, Fëanaro adjusting the sling he was given and Elrond putting back his herbs in the cupboard.

"I was told you were raised by my sons." Said Fëanaro abruptly.

"We were, my brother and I," nodded Elrond carefully. Suddenly uncomfortable with the presence of his guest, he went to the bookshelf standing by a wide window and ran his fingers along the books, wiping the invisible dust. "We were fond of them," he added quietly.

Now Fëanaro was nothing but serious. Elrond could feel his intense stare.

"I was also told my son Makalaurë has not been seen in ages."

"I have looked for him." Elrond picked up a book and ran his hands over the design on the front, tracing the rayed star there and trying to reconcile that the man standing in his office was the very same man who had made that star so famous. He and his sons. "I could not find him." Setting the book down, he faced Fëanaro. "He did not want to be found, or that is what I think."

Fëanaro frowned and moved to look out the window to the seashore far below. "You think what they say is true". He turned and the grey eyes held Elrond in place. "That he wanders in sorrow and regret?" To his surprise, Elrond barked a laugh.

"No!" He shook his head. "No, my lord. I do not believe that. It is true, that for a time he was..." Elrond grimaced, thinking of how Maglor had been the first time he had found him. "He was not himself." It still hurt to think of the bedraggled figure, so gaunt, eyes so haunted and the cracked voice that had once been able to move all but the stars and Arda herself.

"Elrond, tell me the truth." Fëanaro hesitated, for it was an agonizing thought to him, and, he suspected, to this young man. "Maitimo. Did he truly...take his life?"

Closing his eyes at the pain in the voice, Elrond nodded slowly. "That was what Maglor told me. That he could not...he...." He turned away from that piercing gaze, and walked to the side table and took a decanter and two glasses, pouring out a small measure of miruvor. He handed one over to Fëanaro, and took a sip, feeling the warmth dissipate the cold that had crept towards his soul. "He had lost too much."

"My beautiful boy," Fëanaro murmured and sat in a high-backed chair. He stared at the golden liquid, remembering his son, and how joyful he and Nerdanel had been when their first son had been born. "Forgive me."

Elrond sat and stared at him, stunned. This was the proud Fëanaro? "My lord..."

"You should not have had to..." Fëanaro stood and set the glass down with a sharp snap. "I am going to find Makalaurë. I cannot abandon my only son left on these shores. Not again."

Almost pointing out that he had not truly abandoned them the first time, at least not by choice, Elrond frowned. "I am going to ask an impertinent question." He raised his chin. "Why?"

"Why am I going to find him?"

Elrond had grown up with the often stern, sometimes frightening Fëanorians. He was too familiar with that arrogant look to quail before it. Standing, he calmly met the flashing eyes. "Is it to appease your own conscience? That will not help Maglor." He continued before Fëanaro could open his mouth. "I must caution you that your appearance, for it will seem so to him, might cause him to think he is seeing a spirit. His mind is not broken, but it is..." He hesitated to say fragile, for Maglor was yet fierce and dangerous, but he was also wounded, so hurt even now. "He used to sometimes lose track of where, or rather, when he was."

How long had it been since someone not one of his family had dared question him thusly? Fëanaro struggled with temper for a moment, before answering. "He is my _son_ , Elrond Eärendilion. Ask me that question when you yourself are a father and perhaps then I will answer you. For now I will only say that nothing will keep me from finding him." Fëanaro held his gaze. " _Nothing_."

Elrond was silent a moment before nodding once. "Then I pray you will find him, my Lord. Perhaps he will listen to you and cease his exile."

"Would he be welcome here?"

"No." Elrond's smile was sad. "There are too many here who survived the kinslayings at Doriath and Arvernion. Even the Gondolindhrim would be against you."

"Glorfindel of Gondolin is not against me." Fëanaro scowled. "He and I arrived together. Does that not say much?"

He had spoken to him but could hardly be said to know the Balrog-slayer well, but Elrond spread his hands. "It says that perhaps he has a more forgiving nature than those who have not spent time in the company of Námo. Gil-galad has enough trouble balancing the factions here without adding fuel to that fire."

"Then where do you suggest we abide? In the wilderness?"

"No, my lord." Elrond couldn't help but smile at the cynical tone of voice, so like Maedhros. "I will give you a map. There is a valley in the north that I have been preparing for another strong-hold." He nodded. "There are only basic tents there, and around twenty Noldorin scouts and builders. They were faithful to your sons, and far too fractious to live here."

"They did not wish to go with Tyel... Celebrimbor?"

"They are not smiths," Elrond said simply.

Fëanaro nodded, though he had doubts. "Very well. Give me the map and I will let your king know that I am leaving his city in peace."

"Thank you."

"Do not thank me yet." Fëanaro's smile was not unkind, but there was a hint of steel in his gaze. "I have a few things I will say to him before I depart. He will not care to hear, but he would do well to heed my advice.

He was striding out of the room before Elrond could answer, and he let a breath out he had not known he was holding. Spirit of Fire indeed!

***

 Gil-galad stopped at the entrance to his study, shocked to find it occupied. Before he could ask what the stranger was doing there, he turned and met Gil-galad's gaze.

"Ah, there you are. You are Findekáno’s son."

Determined not to get off on the wrong foot with this elf in particular, Gil-galad nodded and walked forward slowly. "Ereinion Gil-galad."

"High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth."

 Was that a mocking note? Nothing showed on the elf's face, but the grey eyes held a measure of amusement.

 "I never expected to find Curufinwë Fëanáro in my study."

 "Surprise seems to be the overwhelming sentiment on these shores at seeing me." Humor then. Gil-galad smiled and went to his desk and sat, studying his guest as he moved around the study, touching this or that.

"Please, sit. I have questions, you must know that."

 "Of course you do." Fëanaro went to the chair, but stood, resting his hand on the back of the chair. "Foremost, do I intend to contest for the crown." He shook his head. "I do not."

"Why were you sent back to these shores?"

"What you really mean, Ereinion Gil-galad, is why did not my Oath bind me to Everlasting Darkness, as I swore." Fëanaro looked out the windows, and the sweeping view of the ocean. "A question better answered by Námo than myself."

Realizing his guest was being evasive on purpose, Gil-galad studied him for a long moment.

 "Glorfindel was elusive in an answer to me as well, but you must realize I cannot allow you to freely roam my kingdom without knowing your purpose."

 "My purpose is my own." Fëanaro held up a hand to forestall an answer. "It has nothing to do with you or your kingdom, Ereinion Gil-galad. Am I mistaken in saying that my grandson, Celebrimbor, is a citizen of Ost-in-Edhil, not Lindon?"

Mouth tightening, Gil-galad drew in a deep breath before answering. "He is, however Eregion is part of my kingdom."

"Is it?" Fëanaro shook his head and looked around the study. "I see tokens of Sindarin, Telerin and Nolorin work. You are a king of a disparate people, who have varying interests. We passed through Harlond and Celeborn warned me not to return. He made it sound a great deal as if the lands that side of the gulf were not your kingdom."

Grimacing, Gil-galad frowned. "The Sindar recognize me as the High King."

"And still do what they will?" Fëanaro held up a hand. "I am not belittling you. I tell you what I see." He met the king's gaze. "It is a fine balance, all of these kindred living so near, with one king."

Not about to admit to Fëanaro how wearying it could be, Gil-galad arched an eyebrow. "And still we are no closer to what you are doing here."

 A slight smile curled Fëanaro's mouth. "You have your father's tenacity." He nodded. "That is a good thing. I hope you have his diplomacy skills as well. He was well regarded." He stepped back, turned and paused. "I wish to look for my son, Makalaurë. As I said, that has nothing to do with your kingdom."

"It has everything to do with me and my people." Annoyed by the high-handed treatment he was getting, Gil-galad stood. "You cannot bring a kin-slayer here and believe a cry will not be raised by the Sindar and the Teleri."

"Was there an outcry when they saw me? Círdan himself did not begrudge me." Fëanaro shrugged. "Regardless, I will search for my son."

"If Celeborn and Galadriel rouse their people against you, there will be trouble."

Fëanaro shook his head and headed for the door. "That is your problem, High King." He turned and met Gil-galad's gaze at the door. "I will send word when I leave." He was through the door and gone before Gil-galad could move to stop him. Blowing out a breath, he slapped a hand on his desk.

"Tathar!"

The page came running in, eyes wide. "Sire?"

"Send Elrond to me. We have a great deal to discuss."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back :)

Chapter IV

 

The following days were one diplomatic nightmare. After the initial shock, Fëanáro's sudden return was bound to cause trouble, but Elrond felt his hands were tied. What was he to do, anyway? He could hardly let him wander around, but stopping him any other way than asking politely? Celebrimbor placed Fëanáro and Glorfindel close to the quarters he and his men occupied during their visit in Lindon. Any attempt of taking Fëanáro into custody would surely end in a riot, which was exactly what Elrond wished to avoid. On what charges anyway? Burning the ships at Losgar? They had worked hard with Gil-galad to make all the old grudges vanish, so various groups of elves could coexist in peace. Arresting Fëanáro would enrage quite a big group of Noldor and they would be right to do so. And besides, Fëanáro had been brought back to life by the Valar. Whatever he had done earlier, he had been forgiven, or else he would be still in Mandos.

Elrond smiled grimly at his thoughts. For a moment he was even tempted to insist that their wounded guest needed his rest and give him some painkilling potion that would send him to sleep, but he had to admit it would be low of him. He had to settle for setting a careful guard, simply to know the whereabouts of their potentially troublesome guest.

Surprisingly, as it quickly turned out, Fëanáro seemed to be above all that. He watched the court with mild interest, but did not interfere unless he was addressed directly. Yes, he wore the emblems of his House with ostentation, but so did his grandson. After growing up with Maglor and Maedhros, then having Celebrimbor living in the city for several centuries before he left for Eregion, Elrond was used to seeing a certain eight-pointed star everywhere. Sometimes literally.

The next time they met, Fëanáro asked Elrond for some more maps and books concerning Sindarin grammar. He mentioned something about having to master the language and Elrond happily picked one of Celebrimbor's men to serve their guest as a guide. There was little trouble reading could cause.

Despite Fëanáro spending most of the time either in the library or in his quarters, Elrond still had to deal with several complaints concerning his mere presence in the city. He was able to cut most of them off by saying that Fëanáro was the king's guest, but he could still see discontent of the complaining elves, and it all dragged him away from his usual duties.

As if it wasn't enough, Galadriel chose that very moment to come visiting with her daughter Celebrian. Elrond was not too pleased when he learned that she had met Glorfindel and Fëanáro in Harlond and failed to send a word of warning. Celeborn remained there, as he had some business to discuss with Cirdan, but Galadriel felt like her presence was needed at the king's court in face of all that happened lately.

So when Gil-galad decided to have a feast to welcome their unexpected guests, Elrond just couldn't shrug off the feeling that something was going to go amiss. Even after their honorary guests promised not to bring any weapons, he was just waiting for the disaster.

***

It was going well. Better than he had thought when Gil-galad had asked him to organize a welcoming ball for the two elves returned to Middle-earth.

Elrond still found the entire situation surrealistic. They had no idea why the elves had been sent back as both were being secretive. Secretive in the darkening days meant nothing good to Elrond. He could not have stopped his suspicions any more than he could stop the sun from its path.

The Valar did not meddle in the affairs of Men and Elves lightly, if ever.

Still, Elrond had to admit there was little if any darkness in Glorfindel of Gondolin (if that was truly who he was. It was ...odd). He moved easily through the gathering, stopping briefly to speak with this or that noble, before moving on around the room. He clearly was comfortable in such settings.

More comfortable than Elrond himself. He did well with small groups, but these huge parties that Gil-galad's felt necessary made him feel as though the collar of his tunic was too tight around his neck, the braids in his hair too tight. At least a great deal of attention was off of him this time. Elrond was not fond of the courtiers who came to him as if toadying up to him would gain them something from the king.

Where was Fëanáro? Elrond found him standing near a pair of doors, inspecting a fancy bit of sculpture. For a moment, a wistful longing softened the haughty expression, but it disappeared when Celebrimbor approached, and Elrond wondered yet again what the Valar were thinking in sending Fëanáro back.

"Elrond, there you are."

He turned and his heart gave a leap as he stared into Celebrían's eyes. His mouth was suddenly dry, his palms damp, but he managed a smile. "Good evening."

Dimples appeared as she smiled, and Celebrían looped her arm through his. "The musicians are going to play one of my favorite songs, I asked them to, and you should ask me to dance."

"I should?" His heart stuttered as she leaned in so close he could see the darker band around the blue of her eyes.

"Definitely."

So, as the music started, he could only smile and lead her out on the floor, a willing captive to her glorious smile.

***

"Do you like it?" Celebrimbor ran his hand over the sculpture. "I felt this palace needed a Fëanorian touch here and there, and did a series of these."

"It's very nice." It did not look alive like Nerdanel's sculptures, but there was a wistful air to the elf, hair blowing in the wind, as he looked to some distant point. There was something familiar about it, the strong jaw line, the stubborn set to the shoulders. "It reminds me of Atarinke."

Celebrimbor nodded, pursing his lips. "I was imagining what my father and uncles looked like when they first arrived here, in Middle-earth." He ran a hand over the sculpture's face. "Before it all went wrong." He looked up to find his grandfather frowning. "I can show the other ones to you if you want."

"Tell me what you are doing now, Tyelpe." Fëanáro glanced around the room, deliberately meeting the gazes of several nobles staring at him. They looked away first and he smirked, turning back to his grandson. "Tell me about the Dwarves. I keep hearing that you are working with them?"

"I am." Enthusiasm fired the grey eyes as Celebrimbor began to explain about the Mithril the Dwarves had found and how he had gathered together many of the Feanorian smiths in Lindon to bring them to Eregion to form the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

Fëanáro listened with an indulgent smile, pleased to hear all that Tyelpe had accomplished.

"But listen." Taking his grandfather's uninjured arm, Celebrimbor turned towards the nearest door. "There is more, but not for so many eager ears to hear." Before he could take one step, Fëanáro's arm was suddenly ripped from his light grip and Celebrimbor whirled to find a dark-haired Noldo had slammed his grandfather against the wall and was holding him in place, hands wrapped around his neck.

***

Glorfindel was listening with very little attention to the noble woman telling him about her daughters, when he heard a pained cry from behind him. He was moving, running for the man holding Fëanáro against the wall even as Celebrimbor moved to pry the man away from his grandfather. Grabbing the shoulders of the man as Celebrimbor pried the choking hands away from Fëanáro, Glorfindel pulled him away and spun him around with a thunderous frown. "You would break the peace of this gathering with violence?" He grabbed the fist coming at him and took hold of the man's tunic to slam him against the wall, knocking the air out of him. "Cease struggling. Now."

"Grandfather!" Celebrimbor eased him to the ground, as Fëanáro, pale and sweaty looked like he was going to be ill. He turned to a shocked onlooker. "Get Elrond!"

"I'm fine." Fëanáro grabbed Celebrimbor's arm and squeezed it hard. "Tell me where that fool that grabbed me is."

Looking over his shoulder, Celebrimbor saw Glorfindel dragging the man away, arm twisted behind his back. "He ran afoul of your friend."

A snort, and Fëanáro closed his eyes. "What did he want?"

"He said nothing. He just suddenly was there." Celebrimbor saw the blood seeping through the tunic as Elrond dropped to his knees next to him.

"What happened?" He eased the sling over Fëanáro's head and peeled back his tunic. "Who let that fool Ornéldo in with a knife?"

"Knife?" Celebrimbor paled. "Elrond, I saw no knife. He went for his throat!"

"And yet here I see my handiwork undone, and the wound is bleeding again." Elrond's frown fell on one of the palace guards, hovering nearby. "Find Ornéldo. Bring him to the king. He will answer for this violence."

"My lord, he's already been subdued." He nodded. "I'll bring him to the king."

"Let's get him up." Elrond looked to Fëanáro and shook his head. "I told the king this was too soon."

"Don't fuss." Fëanáro scowled and with Celebrimbor's help pushed to his feet and swept his gaze overt the gathered crowd. "I believe I have had enough of the welcoming of this court. I find it sadly lacking."

As they walked out, Celebrimbor glared at those they passed. "And this is why I find Ost-in-Edhil much more to my taste." He sneered at a woman who had a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. "At least there if we bleed it is because we work on creating new things, and not because we hate what we do not understand."

He didn't wait to hear a response.

***

Stripping his outer tunic off, Elrond shoved the sleeves of his shirt up and washed his hands before starting to gently clean the area around Fëanáro's wound. "I could string that fool up by his heels for       this." Tossing the bloody linen, he grabbed another and doused it with ointment before meeting Fëanáro's gaze. "This is going to hurt quite a bit, but it will stop the bleeding."

"Do it." Gritting his teeth, Fëanáro grunted as Elrond pressed hard against the abused flesh of his shoulder and collarbone. "Have they asked that man what he was so angry about?"

"I don't know." Elrond looked at Celebrimbor. "Do you wish to go find out?"

A nod and Celebrimbor stood. "I'm no help here." Setting a hand on his grandfather's good shoulder, he squeezed gently. "I'll be back with answers."

"Good." Fëanáro blew out a long breath as Celebrimbor left. "I cannot say I'm enjoying Middle-earth this time around."

"I dare say you aren't." Elrond lifted the pad of linen then pressed it back. "A few more minutes should have the bleeding stopped."

"Did that man have a knife or not?"

"Celebrimbor said no."

Fëanáro shook his head. "I shall need to be more wary, I see." He scowled. "I'm hardly used to the need to worry that someone will try to kill me."

"It pays to be cautious these days." Pulling the cloth away, Elrond studied the wound. "I believe it is clean, but I'm going to only put a few stitches in and bandage it again. You'll have to keep that sling for now."

Waving his good hand impatiently, Fëanáro gave a short nod. "Yes, do what you must, Elrond." He looked at the door. "As will I."

"You are not planning anything rash, are you?" Elrond took a needle. "The king will deal harshly with this man, I promise you that. He does not tolerate such an insult to a guest, himself or the Court."

"I will not seek and kill him, if that is what you are concerned about." Biting back a hiss as the needle went through his skin, Fëanáro gestured to his arm. "I'm hardly fit to do anyone harm, am I?"

"If I believed that," Elrond said and stood, picking up the basin of bloodied linens. "I would not be any sort of advisor to the king, would I?" Wrapping the bandage and tying it off, Elrond helped Fëanáro with the sling before sitting back.

A hint of a smile played around Fëanáro’s mouth. "My thanks yet again, Elrond. I hope we will not have to meet this way much longer."

"As do I."

Waiting only until Fëanáro had left, Elrond washed his hands, grabbed his cloak and left through the door leading to the balcony. He had no desire to return to the party, and before he sought the king, he needed to clear his head of anger.

Elrond headed for the beach.

***

To his annoyance there was someone else who had the same idea. Elrond sighed and thought about turning around, but his ire rose and he decided just to pass whomever it was, and not acknowledge them. They clearly did not know this was generally acknowledged as the king's stretch of beach where Ereinion could be alone and think.

As he passed the person, he looked up and Elrond found himself startled at the tree-bright gaze. He'd grown up with such eyes, though Maglor's had dimmed as life had taken its toll on his soul. These eyes were bright yet, the tree light a sparkling fire in the blue eyes and the glow of his skin marked him unmistakably as an Eldar of Aman.

"How is Fëanáro?"

"He will recover if yet another fool does not decide to take old grudges out on him." Elrond snapped the answer out, and glared defiantly at his unwanted companion.

Glorfindel nodded slowly and looked out to the sea. "He lost his entire family crossing the ice."

"As did others, no doubt, but -"

"I was not making an excuse for him." Sitting on a nearby boulder where the waves did not reach, Glorfindel kept his gaze westward. "We all lost loved ones, that is true. I suspect he simply did not expect to see Fëanáro once again looking healthy and hale while his own kin linger in Mandos."

"Perhaps he should remember all of Fëanáro's sons, save one, are also in Mandos."

"Yes." Glorfindel nodded, a sad smile turning his mouth. "I believe many elves here think they received what they deserved."

"They know nothing," Elrond growled, and began walking. He stopped and turned. "What do you believe, Glorfindel of Gondolin? You who were released from those very halls."

"That we all need mercy and forgiveness for things done in times of darkness." Glorfindel stood and faced Elrond. "That we all made mistakes that, if it was possible, we might go back and do things differently, but time flows in only one direction and so must we." He shrugged. "I surprised myself at my anger upon seeing Artanis."

"She is called Galadriel now."

"Yes," Glorfindel agreed, unruffled at Elrond's surly tone of voice. "So she is. I spoke harsh words and angered her husband." He frowned. "I had thought .... Well, none of us is perfect, are we Elrond Eärendilion?"

"I have never found a perfect person." But his heart reminded him that there was one, with silver hair and sparkling blue eyes, who seemed very near that.

"What will the king do?"

Blinking out of his lovely memories of Celebrían, Elrond's gaze hardened. "I was going to find him now and see just that." He surprised himself by adding, a touch gruffly, "Come with me if you wish. You stopped him after all."

"Celebrimbor as well." But Glorfindel fell into step with Elrond.

"You should tell the king why you have returned."

Glorfindel smiled. "What if it is not about the king?"

Stopping, Elrond turned to frown at his companion. "Then what is it about?"

Laughing, Glorfindel kept walking. "Whom, not what, Eärendilion!"

Scowling, he truly was too annoyed for word games, Elrond caught up and found he had to walk quickly to keep up with the tall elf. "Fine. Keep your secrets. So long as you are not seeking evil against us -" He drew up, and glared as Glorfindel put a hand on his arm.

"Elrond." Glorfindel's voice was quiet, resonating deep. "I mean no ill towards Gil-galad, you or any other here in his kingdom. My only foe is Sauron."

Stomach easing from the sour feel, Elrond blew out a breath. "We could use allies, Glorfindel." He shook his head. "You have no idea...."

"And there is your answer." Glorfindel smiled and met Elrond's gaze, holding it with ease.

A snort and he began walking. "You could have just said so."

"I believe I just did."

Surprising himself, Elrond laughed. "So you did. Come along, Ereinion will be waiting."

***

They were already there, Gil-galad looking outraged, with Elrond at his side. The latter seemed more composed, as if he managed to release some of the anger Fëanáro could sense when he was helping him with his arm. Glorfindel was standing by the wall right from the doors leading at a balcony, his expression unreadable, but something in his posture betrayed his tension and wariness.

The Noldo who had attacked Fëanáro stood before the king, with royal guards close, though not holding him. He still looked furious and certainly not as humbled as he should be, and there was still anger in his voice as he spoke to the king.

"He does not deserve to live!" spat the elf defiantly. "His mere presence here is a mockery."

"And you see yourself a better judge of that than Lord Namo?" asked Fëanáro in the doorstep. He went in, looking down at most save for the king and Elrond at his side. He didn't bother to change, so his stained tunic stood witness to the fact that the elf's actions at the ball had resulted in drawing blood.

"Then why don't you tell us all what are you doing here, other than spiting us with your presence?" The Noldo turned to face Fëanáro, hate and contempt shining in his eyes.

"That is my business," replied Fëanáro dismissively. "And that is none concern of yours as I seek neither aid nor trouble. And as I recall, violence was never welcomed at the king's court."

"You're talking!"

Fëanáro actually laughed at the irony of it.

"A wise man learns not only from his own errors, but also from the ones made by others," he said pointedly. "But perhaps some are unable to draw conclusions from history and mistakes made in youth."

"You'd do well to remember who's in charge here, my lord," interrupted Gil-galad angrily, interrupting the verbal duel.

"Oh, rest assured I do." Fëanáro shrugged, hiding his discomfort behind a smirk. He was not about to show that his shoulder was still aching despite Elrond's tending, but he felt irritated and would gladly retire. "I'm eager to hear the king's verdict."

“And a verdict you shall hear, but not until the Court gathers,” declared Ereinion. “Such an insult will not go unpunished. It saddens me that my guest and my kin was met with violence while attending this gathering at my invitation.”

Though Gil-galad started talking to Fëanáro, he then turned towards Ornéldo. The elf met his gaze, but he looked away and bowed his head. Seeing that the king was clearly displeased, Ornéldo lost some of his resolve.

“Put him under guard till morrow and give him time to sober up,” ordered Gil-galad to the guards, who led Ornéldo away. Then he addressed Fëanáro again. “For now, please accompany me, unless you’re unwell.”

“Your herald has skilful hands,” replied Feanaro evasively. He bowed slightly to the king and Elrond, then turned around and left the room, with Celebrimbor closely behind him.

"I know this party isn’t probably the most fortunate either of us have ever attended, but you know, you look like you could use a strong drink and some food," commented Glorfindel as he joined them at the corridor.

Fëanáro glared at him. "I am not drinking with you again."

"I sense there is a story behind it," laughed Celebrimbor. "Please join me, both of you. I bet I can provide more pleasant company than those fools," he gestured at the group of elves who were trying to find out what was going on.

"Very well.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and your (sometimes very ...interesting) comments! Yes, you know who you are. ;) We appreciate you very much!

Chapter V

 

It was kind of amusing, decided Fëanáro as he passed yet another street and so did the elf following him. The Noldo clearly thought he was hiding well, but being extra careful as he was after the ball the evening before, Fëanáro quickly spotted he had a shadow trailing  him.  He pretended not to see him, though, as he walked idly through the streets, wondering if his shadow would get bored and leave him alone. He did not, still keeping his distance and not interfering.

Finally Fëanáro reached the part of the city they had passed with Glorfindel a few days earlier, the one full of workshops and forges. Remembering what Celebrimbor had said about the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, he headed towards the largest building, assuming correctly that this was the headquarters in the king’s city. He replied to a few surprised greetings as the passing Noldor recognized him, then someone pointed him the way to a chamber where Celebrimbor was holding a meeting.

“I was hoping I’d find you here.”

“Fëanáro!” Celebrimbor brightened as he turned around to face him. “We’ve just finished, so I can be all yours if you need me.”

“I wish to speak with you,” nodded Fëanáro. “We were interrupted yesterday.”

“Oh, right.” Celebrimbor’s expression became grim and serious. “Give me a moment and we can go to my quarters. No one should disturb us there.”

Celebrimbor dismissed his companions and started collecting his papers from the table. Fëanáro took one of the long sheets of paper to study the design concepts and smiled to himself. He’d love to join his grandson in the forges even for the simplest work, but unfortunately he’d have to wait. Sighing, he gave the sketches back to Celebrimbor and noticed that his shadow disappeared as well.

“Do you know him?” he asked his grandson, pointing through the open doors at his unwanted companion, who joined Celebrimbor’s friends at the corridor and engaged in a discussion with them.

“Nórimo? Yes, he’s one of my friends, he’s come with me from Ost-in-Edhil.”

“He’s been following me the whole day,” said Fëanáro, suppressing an irritated sigh. “I guess he was trying to be discreet about it, but he was hard to miss. Ereinion was not too subtle.”

“Actually, it was me,” confessed Celebrimbor. “I asked him to keep an eye on you, just in case there is someone else trying to... well, you know.”

“What? Stab or strangle me?” Fëanáro shook his head. “Don’t worry, I won’t get caught off guard again.”

“I won’t take my chances.” Celebrimbor crossed his arms defiantly in the all too familiar gesture.

Fëanáro felt his heart sink. Caranthir used to glare at everybody this way whenever he set his mind on something and wasn’t allowed to do what he desired, and Curufin picked it from him when he was little. Fëanáro closed his eyes for a brief moment, unable to look at his grandson without seeing his sons still dwelling in Mandos because of the decisions he had made long time ago.

“I don’t get a say in that, do I.” Rolling his eyes. Fëanáro headed to the doors. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s not necessary.”

“Well, Nórimo mingles in the crowd better than your golden-haired friend,” smirked Celebrimbor. “Perhaps he could just join you and keep you company instead of lurking not too discreetly in the corners?”

“He could have tried,” Fëanáro shrugged. “I would not have turned him down if he had joined me.”

They walked back to the buildings surrounding the king’s palace, where Celebrimbor had his chambers. He used to live there and later, when he left for Eregion, he decided to keep the rooms at his disposal. He was important enough to have a place at the king’s court despite the differences they had with Gil-galad.

Celebrimbor tossed the papers he was carrying on a huge oaken desk that stood by the window and went to the doors on the left leading to what turned out to be his bedroom. As he clearly intended to return quickly, Fëanáro did not follow him, but looked around his grandson’s quarters.

The study was spacious and comfortable, but it was clear it wasn’t often occupied. There were only a few books on the shelf and very few personal objects that usually tended to accumulate in places like this. Celebrimbor clearly must have taken most of his belongings to Ost-in-Edhil and kept here only necessary things. There was an eight-pointed star made of gold hanging over the desk. It was encrusted with rubies and emeralds, but the thin rays surrounding the star were made of metal Fëanáro did not know. It was silver of color, but shone brighter and definitely caught his eye. Intrigued, he came closer and ran his fingers along the polished surface. This must have been that mithril Celebrimbor had told him about the previous evening.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” commented Celebrimbor as he came back, carrying a small box. “Just wait till I show you a chainmail made of mithril. They are much lighter than the ones we used to make. The Naugrim have truly mastered working with it.”

“I’m looking forward to a chance to work with it,” admitted Fëanáro. “But as I understand, you had a reason to wish to speak with me in private.”

“I wonder how much you know already,” mused Celebrimbor as he filled two goblets with red wine he kept on the shelf and passed one to Fëanáro. “It seems strange that you two have come from the West now, so soon after the true face of Sauron was revealed,” he muttered to himself, clenching his fist angrily at the memory of the Maia who had deceived him for so long and made a fool of him in the end.

“I’ve been trying to learn more in the past few days, but I’m afraid I know little of what’s been happening here,” replied Fëanáro. He took a sip of the wine he was given and nodded in approval. “Tell me, Tyelpe, because I sense my arrival here was not the thing you wanted to discuss. You’d be hardly first one,” he smirked, remembering how unnerved Gil-galad was and how Elrond tried to use his distraction to get his answers. At least neither of them tried to make him drunk, like Glorfindel.

“Indeed not. The reason I wanted to talk with you in private is this.” Celebrimbor placed the box on the table and opened it.

There were two rings placed carefully inside. The box itself was reinforced with quite powerful magic, but it was the power radiating from the rings that drew Fëanáro’s attention. Glancing up, he met his grandson’s eyes, glinting with pride. Suddenly it made sense why he felt like there was something familiar in the aura he had sensed earlier. These were created by Celebrimbor.

“Careful,” he heard a warning, but he didn’t intend to take such artifacts without their creator’s permission, grandson or not. He knew better than that.

A thousand questions passed Fëanáro’s mind, but before he could voice any, they were interrupted by a sudden knocking on the doors. Sighing, Celebrimbor closed the box and locked it.

“Come in."

One of the guards Fëanáro remembered from the ball went into the room. “My lords, the Court is about to gather. Lord Elrond sent me to escort you.”

“I didn’t expect them to start for at least two hours,” said Celebrimbor, glancing apologetically at his grandfather. “It’s best not to be late.”

“Are we ever going to finish that conversation?” muttered Fëanáro under his breath. There was more to those rings than his grandson was admitting, but it seemed the issue would have to wait again. Frustrated, he followed the guard.

* * *

 

The Court assembled as the shadows of the trees outside were slanting into the formal gathering hall. Glorfindel stood to one side, the better to watch the proceedings. He was curious how Gil-galad would handle the decision. Would he do as Turgon had, and hold a formal Court hearing? It seemed not, for as he watched a group of elves filed in and stood behind the king who watched as Ornéldo was led in. Fëanáro stood next to the king, his arm in a sling, looking unamused at all the curious gazes on him. The murmuring talk that had been filling the room ceased as Elrond ascended the steps. "This is the formal hearing of Ornéldo Ténion who, in front of witnesses now assembled here, assaulted Fëanáro Finwion, a guest of the king, with intent to do bodily harm." His gaze swept the faces of those gathered. "Is there anyone who would speak before the King delivers the Council's decision?"

Glorfindel watched the faces of those nearest the stage, curious to see if they would speak. A woman took a step forward. "I will speak on behalf of Ornéldo." She waited for Elrond to nod before ascending one step and turned to look at the Court. "You all know my husband, a good man who has been a part of this community since the end of the War of Wrath. Perhaps what you do not know is that he crossed the Helcaraxe after being abandoned by Fëanáro who judged him not loyal enough to cross upon the boats." She turned to glare at Fëanáro. "Not loyal enough! After his brother was killed at Alqualondë though he did not set foot upon a boat. And why?" She was shaking with anger. "Because he wore this fool's emblem. That cursed star that is upon everything tainted in this city!"

"Thandiel." Elrond moved to stand next to her. "Speak on behalf of your husband, or stand down."

She nodded after a moment and Elrond moved away. "Ornéldo was shocked upon seeing Fëanáro last night. It brought back all the memories of watching his brother die and being deserted.  He had to cross the ice with Nolofinwë after Fëanáro burned the ships! You all know him as a kind man who has never disturbed the peace of Forlond. Will you punish him for one outburst of anger in his grief?"

Elrond nodded as she stepped back to join her friends who gathered closer to her. "Is there anyone else who has aught to say?" He arched an eyebrow as Glorfindel pushed away from the wall and moved to stand before him.

"May I speak?"

"Of course." Moving away as Glorfindel stepped up, Elrond almost smiled at the surprised expressions of the Court.

"It has been my curious honor to have escorted Fëanáro from Aman to Forlond, and I admit that at first I was not in agreement with the Valar's decision." He turned so that he could look at Fëanáro who merely arched an eyebrow. "But I will say this. I knew him in Aman when I was a child; he is my mother's half-brother." There were murmurs at that, and Glorfindel met the gaze of Thandiel. "I understand your anger, I too crossed the Helcaraxë and lost loved ones, but you cannot know what it is to dwell in the Halls of Mandos." His gaze swept the crowd. "None here can, save Fëanáro and myself. You say that he should not be alive again, free to walk the land when you have loved ones who are still in the Halls.  That he has not paid for all that he did." Spreading his hands, Glorfindel held Thandiel's angry gaze. "I say you are not qualified, not a single one of you, to speak such a judgment." He raised his voice over the angry responses. "I have stood in the Máhanaxar and had my soul weighed in judgment before the Valar as has Fëanáro, as will any who would be re-embodied and allowed to be free to live in Aman again."

"Quiet." Elrond did not raise his voice but pushed his will behind the command and those arguing fell silent though they still glared at Glorfindel. "Continue, Lord Glorfindel."

"I believe I have said what needed to be spoken." Glorfindel turned to the king and bowed before stepping back to the wall.

Fëanáro let a smile curl his lips, surprised that the golden-haired elf had come to his defense, but well pleased.

Wishing to have the judgment over, Elrond steeled himself to patience and again asked the Court, "Is there anyone else who would speak?" After a long moment of silence he nodded. "Lords and Ladies, His Majesty Ereinion Gil-galad will now speak the judgment, as agreed upon by the Council, in the matter of Ornéldo Ténion.

Gil-galad, wearing his formal circlet and dressed in a dark blue tunic with the stars of his emblem moved forward as Elrond stepped back. "It saddens me that a celebration was tainted by an attack upon a guest in my own home." He met Thandiel's gaze. "I have not forgotten that there are those with ancient enmity against the Feanorians, nor will I belittle your reasons for I understand what it is to lose someone you love." He looked away and met the gazes of those angriest in the crowd. "I will not condone the harm of my guest, nor will I accept any excuse for a physical attack. We are Elves, Lords and Ladies, descended from both those who never left these shores as well as those who ventured from Aman." He lowered his voice. "I hold each and every one of you to the highest standards as befits those who came before us. If you have a grievance, bring it before the Council and let them decide. If you do not like their judgment you may appeal to me directly. But I will _not_ allow any of you to carry out judgment upon one another and I will never tolerate kinslaying in my kingdom."  After a moment of absolute silence, he turned and gestured, waiting for the guards to bring Ornéldo to stand before him. " Ornéldo, what you did was done without planning, in a moment of sheer fury, and we have taken all of your reasons into account. After examining the case, I, as well as the Council, have decided that your punishment is exile from Forlond and from my Court for a period of seven years." He held up his hand before anyone could say anything. "Seven years will pass quickly and your businesses will not be harmed by your not being in the city. You must be gone in four days or you will be escorted from the city, but when the seven years is up, you will be welcomed back to my Court and to Forlond." Gil-galad met Ornéldo's gaze. "There is an apology to be given as well."

Ornéldo bit his lip, looking as if he would argue but as the king held his gaze, he finally bowed. Turning towards Fëanáro, Ornéldo frowned. He was breathing fast, his face flushed with anger, but he gave the slightest of bows, barely bowing his head. "I ask for your forgiveness, Lord Fëanáro." He swallowed hard, hands fisting and continued. "Forgive me for attacking you and harming you."

It was clearly a monumental effort for Ornéldo to get the words out. Fëanáro was silent a long moment, remembering a time when his anger had overruled his head and he had threatened his half-brother with the point of a sword in the king's court. He was not proud of that moment, or any moment when he lost control and let emotion rule him. Only when he had refused Morgoth and slammed the door in his face - that...oh yes, that had been worth it. But it had not harmed Morgoth. It had only made him more determined to harm Finwë's family. "Learn from the past, but do not repeat it," he murmured.

Ornéldo narrowed his eyes but remained silent.

"You do not wish for my forgiveness, that much is obvious." Fëanáro nodded as the man continued to glare at him. "I will give it regardless. It is clear my past actions hurt you and your family, though that was never my intent." Grey eyes hardening, Fëanáro held Ornéldo's gaze a moment before looking at the crowd. "I would remind all gathered here that the real enemy is not any one of us but Sauron Gorthaur." He frowned. "Do not fall to his machinations."

Looking relieved, as if he had expected far worse, Gil-galad said, "A wise reminder." He nodded to Elrond who clapped his hands twice.

"Court is dismissed." He moved to stand next to the king as Ornéldo was escorted out, his wife at his side. The rest of the Court left as well, whispering to one another about the judgment and those who had spoken. "I hate these formal events."

Gil-galad removed his circlet and rubbed his forehead. "As do I, Elrond, but they are necessary."

"Are they?"

With a wry smile, Gil-galad looked at his herald. "What would you have me do?"

"I would have people restrain themselves!"

"Ah, Elrond." Shaking his head, the king's smile fell away. "That would be wonderful, but we both know it won't happen. Our people have long memories and hurts are all too easily called forth at times."

"You've learned wisdom, Ereinion."

Did he manage to suppress the grimace? Turning to face the speaker, Gil-galad inclined his head. "Thank you for your approval, Galadriel."

"I did not say I approved." Her gaze went to Fëanáro who was standing with Celebrimbor, watching her. "But you made the best of the situation."

"I take it you're not here just to point out the errors of my court?"

She smiled, blue eyes glinting with light and amusement. Voice quiet, she said, "I bring you information from Eregion."

"Excuse me." Celebrimbor stepped away from his grandfather's side to move to face Galadriel. "I think I should be included in this discussion, don't you?"

"When were you going to tell him, Celebrimbor?"

"Tell me what?" Gil-galad looked highly displeased as he met the gaze of first Galadriel and then Celebrimbor. He drew in a deep breath and pivoted. "Follow me, then. We'll take this discussion to a more private venue. 

Glorfindel noticed Elrond frown and move as if to follow, but a shake of Gil-galad's head and he stopped, watching the three elves until they disappeared around a corner.

Elrond turned and walked away quickly, leaving Fëanáro and Glorfindel alone in the hall.

"Well." Glorfindel crossed his arms as Fëanáro walked up. "That went well."

"I will take that as you being sour, which is not your usual manner." Fëanáro kept his expression mild as Glorfindel frowned. "What did you expect from a Noldorin court, Laurëfindil? Perhaps you spent too much time with your Vanyarin relatives while in Aman. No doubt, everyone in Ingwë's court is congenial and even-tempered."

"Are you mocking me?"

"Not at all." Fëanáro shrugged. "Ingwë's court was entirely boring the last time I visited."

 "Over an _Age_ ago!" Huffing a long breath out, Glorfindel waved his hand at Fëanáro before he could speak. "It matters not. The mood of Ereinion's court is not good and that does not bode well for the future."

"Celebrimbor said he has his hands full juggling the needs and wants of the three kindred."

"Yes." Glorfindel grimaced. "But there is more at work here than just disparate wills." He met Fëanáro's gaze. "You have sensed the power of -"

"Do not speak of that here." Fëanáro took hold of his elbow, and directed him to walk. "The very walls have ears in a royal court, as you well know, Laurë."

"Fine. Where are we going?"

"Where we won't be overheard." Fëanáro's smile did not bring forth an answering one. "The forges, Laurëfindil! Where else did you expect?"

Snorting, Glorfindel pulled his arm free. "A boat upon the sea would work."

"Now you're just being cruel."

"I-" Glorfindel stopped his comment and gestured. "To the forges." He slanted a look at his companion. "At least there I won't have to clean up vomit."

"And people find you charming."

"It must be a family trait."

Shaking his head, Fëanáro let it go. They had more important things to discuss. It was time to be honest about why each of them had been sent to Middle-earth by the Valar. He had a feeling if they were not in agreement of what they were to do it could be disastrous.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, yes, but more to come soon!


	6. Chapter 6

"As much as I understand your love for forges and distaste for ships... Do you think you can just walk into the forge and expect to pass unnoticed? We are still kind of a novelty in here."

"Yes, we can," said Fëanáro confidently and walked straight to one of the workshops. "I am welcomed in Tyelpe's forge. And as it happens, I believe right now he is busy doing some explaining to his king."

They went in. Once Fëanáro locked the door, he started looking around for tools and glancing into boxes containing jewels. Glorfindel sat on the working table and watched his companion with amusement. Fëanáro seemed so excited he looked like a child left in a vault to pick the treasures of his liking and play with them. He found a sheet of paper and drew a few quick sketches, placing several shiny jewels on them to check which looked best.

"I thought we came here to talk," said Glorfindel after a while, feeling a bit forgotten.

"We did. I am just working on providing some necessary noise that will allow us to speak freely." Apparently pleased with his design, Fëanáro removed his sling.

"Elrond will skin you alive for that."

"He won't," smirked Fëanáro in response and moved his forearm probingly. Keeping his elbow immobilized close to his side, he nodded in approval. "It should be fine as long as I don't do any lifting."

"Alright." Glorfindel spread his arms. "What do I do?"

Fëanáro looked at him as if he had grown a second head. Sighing, he pointed at the hearth.

"Start with the fire."

"Right." Fumbling as much as he could, Glorfindel figured where his companion wanted the fire to be lit. Fëanáro rolled his eyes, but he could hardly say anything about the purposed clumsiness. "Back to the point. Did you-"

"I did." Fëanáro cut him off. "The power of the rings is hard to miss for someone like you and me, especially when they were created by one of my blood."

"Celebrimbor crafted them, then?" Why wasn't is surprising? Glorfindel shook his head to toss his hair back and out of the way. "You Feanorians certainly have a thing for powerful jewels."

"As much as I appreciate your wits, we may have a serious problem here!" snapped Fëanáro sharply and turned back to the table, ignoring Glorfindel for a long time.

Working in the forge always helped him think and as he breathed in the familiar scents and listened to the sounds he had been deprived of for so long, Fëanáro could feel his mind clear. The wary tone that Galadriel spoke with and the way Celebrimbor rushed to cut her off made all his senses scream in alarm, but he couldn't place the reason right away. Now, as he moved the forms for filigree parts, trying to determine the harmonious design, some pieces of the puzzle fell into the right places.

The power he had felt from the two rings was nothing like any other creation of the elves. Such wonders could perhaps be created in Mahtan's forges when Aulë chose to work with him. The craft leading to their creation was something Fëanáro had never faced before and he doubted the elves in Middle-earth were capable enough to invent the rings on their own.

But then, he had learned wonders from Aulë and, sadly, from Morgoth. So was it...

"I was asking if the fire is good enough for your standards." Judging by Glorfindel's annoyed tone, he had to repeat that question.

Fëanáro moved a form that threatened to fall from the table and looked at his companion. Glorfindel was clearly puzzled by his sudden snap and the silence that followed. Also, if earlier he seemed sour after the court, now he looked almost grim.

"Have they taught you nothing?" he asked sharply. "Bellows are right there."

"Not everybody is a smith, you know," Glorfindel shrugged. "Even in this family."

Fëanáro noticed the intent stare of his companion. Glorfindel looked troubled and suspicious and Fëanáro found he really didn’t like it.

"Why are you watching me like this?"

"I didn't expect the forge to change you so much, but perhaps that was silly of me," snapped Glorfindel, no longer his usual cheery self. "What is going on? You were not this angry yesterday after that incident at the ball. What are you up to? Why are you really here? And don't just give me that nonsense about Maglor."

A flash of anger threatened to overcome Fëanáro at the remark about his son. He had long since learned that losing his temper was a tricky road, but he was too frustrated. Besides, he could hear the unspoken question and he knew that right now Glorfindel was on a good way to questioning his sanity. It unnerved him, so he tried to focus on the work, but he gave up, still feeling Glorfindel’s intent stare. Fëanáro placed the tools aside and leaned against the table, crossing his arms.

“What do you expect me to say? No,” he raised his voice, seeing that Glorfindel was about to open his mouth. “Let me speak and for once keep that witty remarks of yours for yourself. I _am_ going to find my son and that reason was never a sorry excuse to evade answering. And I know what you probably thought, I saw it in Ereinion’s eyes too. But instead of giving in to your suspicions so easily, answer yourself one question. Would Lord Námo let me out if I was to wreak havoc here?” he asked challengingly.

Glorfindel met his glare easily. “I just wish I was as certain of it as I let the court think.”

“Then think again,” snapped Fëanáro. “If you really need to know why I’m out, then here you are. There was nothing else to be done in the Halls. Neither for nor by me. Here, however, I can use my abilities to aid Gil-galad in the war that is coming. Believe it or not, I may not have worked in ages, but it doesn’t mean my mind is rusty. More things I can do to fight the evil that once dared to lay his hands on my son. And I didn’t even-“ he dropped mid-sentence.

 “Didn’t what?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever else was there, it will remain between Lord Namo and me.” He was not going to share the details of his release from the Halls of Mandos with Glorfindel, nor anyone else in these lands. The only person he longed to speak with was on the other side of the sea. If he was ever to return to Valinor, if she would ever wish to hear him, Fëanáro would share his secrets with Nerdanel. And with her only. Those were personal matters and none of Glorfindel’s business.

“Fine, do as you wish.” The bellows hit the ground loudly as Glorfindel dropped them. He straightened and wiped his hands against his trousers. “I’ll try to take your word for that, though you’re not making it easy,” he snorted. “Have fun, I’m done with the forges for today.” With that, he turned around and left, the doors slamming after him.

* * *

 

It started to rain as he walked, but Glorfindel welcomed the coolness. It reminded him of Vinyamar, and the coastlands. Before Turgon had his vision and created a city in the image of Tirion, the city long-lost to the Exiles. Glorfindel had been concerned his lord was just trying to recreate the past, a past where he had been happy. Where Elenwë had been alive. Then the gates had been built and Turgon had forbidden his people to go beyond the Echoriath. Glorfindel had argued against closing the city, knowing it meant sending no aid to his cousins and cutting off all communication between them. Of course he had been over-ruled. Turgon had wanted to keep his people safe.

But at what cost?

 _Stop living in the past_ , Glorfindel told himself. The future was where he needed to focus, the now where he could do some good for those facing the darkness that was again threatening his people.

Fëanáro was potentially a problem. Fëanáro. Glorfindel shook his head, sending drops of water scattering as the rain began to fall faster. His uncle was unpredictable at best, a tempest waiting to explode at worst. There was so much potential for good in Fëanáro. Glorfindel wanted to see that, just as he had as a child, the times he had been allowed to attend functions where Fëanáro and his family had been present. Findis had grown angry of being snubbed and scorned and had not wanted her children to feel those things, but once old enough, Glorfindel had done as he wished and visited his cousins. Fëanáro had been amazing then, in the glory of Aman, always creating some new wonder. That was the Fëanáro he had been hoping to find again in this new world.

But too much had happened, and Glorfindel had been unreasonable in his expectations, he knew that. Some small part of him had still hoped. He snorted and pushed wet golden hair back from his face. Fëanáro was too proud to accept a hand, even one offered in good-will. Too tormented by the past and his sons.

His sons.

Glorfindel sighed. He mourned his cousins and what had happened. The very reminder of their fates made him pause every time he felt like losing his temper and shouting back at Fëanáro. He was not a father, but maybe someday he would be, and he would not wish the fate of the Fëanorians on any child.

"He still didn't need to be such an ass," Glorfindel declared, then chuckled. Why let a grumpy relative ruin his day? It certainly wasn't the first time and likely wouldn't be the last.

Wandering through a section of Forlond he was not familiar with, he stopped, eyes widening as he heard a voice from the past.

It could not be. He was dead, drowned in fountain of his own making. Drowned while killing that damned spawn of Morgoth that had threatened Tuor. Glorfindel swallowed hard and turned towards the source of the music he was hearing.

He opened the door to the tavern and for a moment felt as though time had somehow spun backwards and he was once again in his favorite pub in Gondolin. There were murals on the walls depicting the city in its white beauty and several scenes of daily life.

But it was the voice of the elf singing that drew his attention. Glorfindel, water dripping from his hair, face beaded with rain, soaking wet, took a step inside and fought to anchor himself in the present. What he was seeing...it could not be!

The singer stopped mid-word and the lute player looked up in surprise before following the singer's line of sight. "H...how can this be?"

"Ecthelion?" Glorfindel took a step forward, shaking his head. "You died. I saw... I saw you sink." His voice broke on the last word and he wiped the back of his hand across his face. "No." His laugh cracked and he sank into a chair, tears mingling with the beads of rain. "You must be his son."

The singer leaped down from the stage and walked towards Glorfindel. He was pale, as pale as Ecthelion had been, and his black hair was touched with silver strands, a legacy from both parents. The hazel eyes though...

Stopping an arm's length away, the singer stared, shock clear on his face. "I am Erestor of the Fountain." He drew in a shaking breath. "How is it you are returned to us, Lord Glorfindel?"

"Lord?" Glorfindel shook his head and suddenly smiled. He stood and reached out to put his hand on Erestor's shoulder. "You were a child when I knew you, but even then you were not so formal. I seem to recall your father laughing at several nicknames you bestowed upon me."

Erestor flushed, but offered a faint smile. "Eärendil had more for you than I."

Glorfindel laughed and looked around the tavern, seeing other familiar faces, all staring at him in various states of shock and astonishment. "The tale is a long, boring one, but if you will bring me an ale, I will tell you what I am able." He met Erestor's gaze again. "Though I am much more interested in hearing about how all of you came to be in Forlond."

* * *

 

The gnawing feeling that something was amiss would not leave him. Elrond rarely felt excluded, but right now he wished he was by the king’s side. Whatever Galadriel and Celebrimbor had to tell Ereinion, it was clearly an important matter and one not to be discussed publicly. He had heard rumors about the stormy relations Celebrimbor had with his cousin and couldn’t help but wonder what issue brought those two back together, for they tended to disagree.

Musing would get him nowhere, he knew that, but it was still better than being bothered by the Court members, who no doubt would show their keen interest in their uncommon guests or be willing to share their thoughts about the king’s verdict. Elrond had heard enough complaints during the last week and he doubted they would come with anything new.

Data. In order to be of any use to the king, he needed to know what was going on. His mind was circling around what little he knew, but finally Elrond had to admit defeat. He would have to wait.

Walking quickly, Elrond went around the corner and halted abruptly, avoiding a collision at the last moment. Intending to pass whomever he almost crashed into, he murmured a hasty apology, but a surprised laughter – a familiar laughter – stopped him better than a hand laid on his shoulder.

“You seem troubled,” said Celebrían matter-of-factly. “Do you really dislike the Court so?”

“I do not.” Elrond shook his head and offered her a resigned smile. “But at times I do wish I was as far away as possible.”

“I doubt the king would let you be gone for long, but perhaps I can steal you for this afternoon?” she smiled. “I intended to go to the market, but I’d rather have some dinner. Would you accompany me? I doubt my mother is going to join me today and the city has changed since I last walked its streets.”

Elrond felt his heart lighten. Perhaps this day was not such a disaster after all?

“I think I know just the place,” offering her an arm, Elrond maneuvered her towards the shortest way to leave the palace.

* * *

 

Closing the door to his study, Ereinion warily eyed the other two elves in the room. They were staring at each other, probably communicating through osanwe, and shutting him out. He was weary of all the subterfuge and games of the Court. “Sit, both of you.” It was not so much an invitation as an order, and the words did as he hoped. Both of them turned to frown at him. “Sit and stop this posturing, both of you.” He sat in a comfortable armchair near the fireplace, and kept his expression inscrutable. “One of you tell me what is going on. Or perhaps I could tell you what I hear from Ost-in-Edhil?”

Celebrimbor grimaced and strode to a chair to sit. He leaned forward, arms braced on his thighs. “You have spies watching us.”

“Don’t pretend that surprises you, cousin.” Ereinion removed his circlet and set it on the table next to his chair. “Something has been going on since that stranger came here, offering all sorts of gifts to us if we would but allow him in the city.” His grey eyes hardened. “Elrond did not like him, and Elrond’s instincts regarding people are well-honed. We turned him away and he was very displeased.” Sitting back, he held Celebrimbor’s gaze. “So what do you need to tell me?”

Galadriel sat as well, and watched Celebrimbor with the intensity of a hungry raptor. 

“He came to me as well.” Celebrimbor pushed to his feet and paced to the doors that led to the balcony before returning. “Annatar, he calls himself. The skills he has as a smith…” He grimaced. “Even my father did not know such things, as skilled as he was, and I knew Annatar must have studied with Aulë himself as he claimed.” Shaking his head, he sat again. “I was wary, but he claimed the Valar had sent him to help us in making rings.”

Celebrimbor met Ereinion’s gaze, and let his concern bleed through. “I recall watching my grandfather at the forge when I was a child, Ereinion. There was no more talented Noldo than he, and the power he wielded was incredible to me, but Annatar….” He shook his head. “I did not trust him. Why would the Valar send someone to help us in creating anything after they said they would not even hear our cries?"  

"Yet they did, and came to overthrow Morgoth." Galadriel’s voice was like smooth ice, cutting into the conversation with cool precision. "Elrond saw that he was a Maia."

Before Ereinion could answer, Celebrimbor said, "Yes, and you warned me not to treat with him, Galadriel, I am _well_ aware of that."

It was clear to Ereinion that there was far more history to the pair before him than he had first thought. "Elrond thought as much, though he said the man cloaked it well." Rubbing his finger over a thumbnail, he looked from Galadriel to Celebrimbor. "What has happened? It cannot be good, for the reports I have out of your city are muddled with rumors of this Annatar leaving in anger after doing something forbidden."

"Forbidden." Celebrimbor stood again and raked his hand through his hair. "If only it was that simple."

Ereinion, easily the youngest of the three elves in the room suddenly saw a vulnerability in Celebrimbor he had never thought to see. "Tell me, cousin. Let us have it out in the open so that we may determine what must be done."

"He did not touch the three I worked on; I would not suffer him to even watch me work!" Celebrimbor looked at Galadriel. "Do you have it, the Ring of Adamant?"

"I did not bring it here. To have all three rings in one place would be foolish."

Looking relieved, Celebrimbor turned to Ereinion. "There are two rings here. The Ring of Fire and the Ring of Air."

"Are they with you, right now?"

"No. I keep them secured in my chamber. The box is protected."

Ereinion slowly stood, looking perilously close to losing his temper. "You brought Rings of Power into my kingdom and did not think it important enough to tell me? How powerful are these rings, Celebrimbor? I have seen other rings that did little, but knowing the skills of your family line I cannot help but be concerned."

"Very Powerful." Celebrimbor met the furious gaze and raised his chin. "The rings I created are made to preserve, Ereinion. To hold back the effects of time upon our lands." He shook his head. "But that is not the worst of it all."

Drawing in a breath, Ereinion picked up his circlet and walked to his desk where he set it down. "I cannot help but wonder at the timing of all of this. Fëanáro and Glorfindel of Gondolin returned to us, a Maia of Aulë teaching your smiths arts likely best left in Aman, and now...what else?" He turned, grey eyes bright with anger.

"Annatar has betrayed us." Celebrimbor's hands fisted as he remembered how he realized they had all been such fools. "He has made a ring of his own in secret."  He barely glanced at Galadriel as she too stood and came to stand next to him. "His ring is the master of ours, of all the rings we made, even the three I did not allow him to touch."

"Then we destroy the rings so that he cannot master them!"

"It's not that simple, Ereinion!" Celebrimbor grimaced, attempting to rein in his temper. "There were other rings, rings given to the Dwarves and to Men."

"And they will be subject to this master ring."

"Yes," Celebrimbor snapped. "All of them, even my three! If I had known --"

"But you did not." Galadriel interrupted him, her voice cool. "We cannot undo what has been done, Celebrimbor."

"I know that!" He turned away to walk to the fireplace and stare at the flames. "But what of the Dwarves? What of the Men? Sauron will enslave them!"

"They cannot know."

Ereinion frowned, looking to Galadriel in concern. "Men are our allies, Galadriel. Why would we not inform them of something that could directly impact their kingdoms?"

"I advise you against it." Galadriel's gaze was distant, ancient eyes focused on things beyond sight. "Men desire power above all else; telling them will not keep them from accepting something they see as an advantage."

"The Dwarves wouldn't listen to me anyways." Celebrimbor shook his head. "I warned Narvi. He scoffed and told me that elven magic would not sway a dwarf."

"Let us hope he's right." Ereinion rubbed his forehead. "Keep the rings secured, Celebrimbor, and I think we need to inform the Council this latest news." He met Celebrimbor's gaze. "If what you say is true, Annatar will not stop here."

"No." Celebrimbor's laugh was harsh and full of anger. "He definitely will not stop."

"Then we must plan for what we will do when he comes seeking the rings."

* * *

 

The rain did not cease even as they left the tavern. Elrond led Celebrian to her quarters, then headed back to the palace. His steps were quick, but he slowed as he saw the light in Celebrimbor’s workshop. They had not found Galadriel in the quarters she and Celebrían shared, so he assumed they were all still talking. Intrigued, he opened the doors.

“I didn’t realize you share our interest in crafting, Elrond,” remarked Fëanáro as he saw the newcomer. His expression was blank and his movements stiff, but it was plain he had been working here for some time. In fact, he must have finished whatever he was doing, because the fire in the hearth was slowly dying.

“What are you doing here?” Elrond despised seeing his work undone, especially by the foolishness of those he looked after.

“I needed to think.” Even standing with his back to him, Fëanáro must have sensed his displeasure, for he used only his good arm to clean the working table. “There is no better place than a forge.” He picked something from the surface and approached Elrond. “Here, take it.”

A flash of light, a glimmer of green and a fine brooch was laid on Elrond’s palm. It looked so delicate he feared it would break. It was fitting to be a crown jewel on a ball gown more than his daily robes.

“I wouldn’t...”

Fëanáro shook his head and cut him off. “Please take it as my gratitude for your help. Take it and perhaps please the lady I saw you with yesterday?”

Elrond felt a blush creep on his cheeks as he closed his fingers over the brooch. Fëanáro laughed softly, but there was no mocking.

“You do know I have seven sons, three of which got married at some point,” his tone was light, but his eyes remained grim and longing. His face softened a bit, but the hungry look remained. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Elrond. Take it and make it serve you well. Be glad the lady of your heart is on the same side of the sea.” With that, Fëanáro put the last tools on their place and grabbed his disregarded sling. “And have a good night.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, we kind of spilled the beans, the king finally learned about the rings :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all - we are sorry it took us so long to get to this chapter. Life's been rough and sadly writing ended up being low on the priority list... But we're back and we never dropped this story. We really hope you have not given up on this fic just yet.
> 
> Many thanks to Anduniela for having a glance at this chapter to see if it works :)

**Chapter VII**

 

The Roasted Oliphant was a merry place that served an excellent food. Even though it was rather early in the afternoon, the tavern was crowded, mostly with craftsmen from the nearest workshops, who had come for a meal, but also to exchange news and gossip with the elves from Ost-in-Edhil, as their quarters were nearby. They gathered by the biggest table, sharing food as well as news and anecdotes.

Celebrimbor purposely picked a small table farther from the entrance, wishing to have a quiet meal with Fëanáro. However it was hard not to listen to the merry company.

“…big sudden flash of flames, must have been some impurities in the metal, and he jumps back slapping at his beard.” The smith shook his head, the surprise still clear on his face. “I’ve heard dwarves curse before, you know how good they are at it, growling in that language of theirs, but this fellow, he puts his beard out, glares at me like it was my fault and stomps off.” He took a drink and held up a hand. “Could have knocked me over with a leaf when Narvi turns and tells me I better not laugh because losing any amount of beard is hugely insulting to a dwarf but to a female….”

“Are you telling me Ais is a female?” The other smith’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

The first smith grinned. “Always knew there were she dwarves, didn’t we? Just didn’t realize we were working right alongside them!”

“To be fair,” Celebrimbor leaned closer to his grandfather to be heard in the noisy tavern. “Ais is the only one, but Narvi and I like to let them keep guessing.” He grinned, gesturing to the group of his smiths. “It wouldn’t do to tell them all the dwarven secrets.”

“And do you know all their secrets?” Fëanáro leaned back in his chair, a bemused smile curling his lips.

“Oh no.” Celebrimbor laughed. “Dwarves keep their secrets as close as their beards. No one who isn’t a dwarf knows everything.”

Fëanáro, who had never met a dwarf, tried to imagine a female with a beard and found it unappealing but intriguing. Humans he had seen in Harlond seemed to have an inordinate amount of hair as well, some with elaborate beards. The door to the tavern swung open as he was looking around the tavern to see if there were any dwarves present, and Glorfindel entered.

“There’s your friend.” Celebrimbor waved an arm. “Glorfindel! Over here.” He laughed as the golden-haired elf dodged a barmaid with a heavily-laden tray only to be stopped by a group of elves who had been at court. “He already knows quite a few people it seems.”  
Fëanáro nodded. “News travels fast.” Everyone wanted to meet both of the returned elves, but Fëanáro’s reputation seemed to keep many curious people from approaching him. Glorfindel appeared to have the opposite problem as he kept getting stopped as he attempted to reach their table in the back.

Finally approaching them, Glorfindel pulled his cloak off and tossed it into the empty chair before sitting. “How’s the arm after all that forge work?”

“I did nothing strenuous.” Seeing the golden-haired elf was a little pale, Fëanáro asked, “What did you do, go drink the night away in a pub?”

With a wry grin, Glorfindel sat back. “Actually, no, but I was in a pub.” His eyes fell on a box in the seat next to Celebrimbor and the joviality melted from his expression. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No.” Celebrimbor took the box and set it on the table. “I found something in a corner and thought I'd share." He removed the lid and took out an elaborate figure of an owl. He touched something and suddenly the owl was alive, ruffling its silver feathers. Tiny emeralds cast green reflexes in the sun. The eyes of the owl glowed similarly to Fëanorian lanterns, only the light was pale yellow around black pupils. Glorfindel almost expected it to make a sound and fly.

“Don’t you remember toys like that from Tirion?” Fëanáro grinned at his companion’s awe, but his voice was full of fondness. “I remember father asked me once to bring some to the palace, for Irime probably. Findis must have been too old for those by then.”

“Aren’t you?” Glorfindel looked at Celebrimbor, amused. It was refreshing to look at a fine piece of craft that was not a weapon or armor. Reaching out to touch the talons of the owl, he smiled. "My brothers and I always had to go in and admire the Great Eagle Finwë had in his office." His eyes dimmed and he looked to Feanor to see if mentioning his father was upsetting. Hesitating, he added, "We thought it had come from Manwë himself until grandfather set us right and told us you had made it." Glorfindel pulled his hand back. "It is good to see some things continue, even here in Middle-earth."

"Many traditions continue." Celebrimbor said firmly and pressed the hidden switch that dimmed the owl's eyes and set the ruffled feathers back in place. "You should come to the forges more often, Glorfindel. Then you would see-"

"He did not enjoy the forge much." Fëanáro, who had been quiet, met Glorfindel's gaze. "Or perhaps it was the company."

Shaking his head, Glorfindel said, "The company was ever as intense as the fire of the forges, but one must get burned a bit when around fire, isn't that correct?"

Fëanáro snorted. "You cannot fear fire and work in a forge."

Thinking of what he had faced on the mountain peaks in the previous Age, Glorfindel was silent a moment. "I do not fear fire." He looked up, and held the unwavering gaze of his uncle, aware there was an underlying question. "I do respect it."

"And here I’ve always thought you just didn't want to get your hair sooty!" Celebrimbor elbowedGlorfindel, attempting to lighten the conversation. "You Vanyar and your hair."

"Now there's some truth to that." Fëanáro agreed. He laughed at Glorfindel's pretended look of outrage. "Tell me you are not vain about that golden hair of yours."

"Of course!" Glorfindel preened, laughing. "You would be as well had your family named you after your hair." He shook his head. "What were they thinking?"

"You must have had a prodigious head of hair when you were born." Celebrimbor looked to the door as it opened. As Elrond entered, he turned to his grandfather. "Either Gil-galad is looking for you or has a message. Elrond rarely comes to the pub." Seeing the King's Herald making his way towards them, he shrugged. "We'll soon see."

Was that relief in Elrond's face? Fëanáro saw wariness in the elf's eyes as well.

"It is good I found you all together." Elrond wasted no time in pleasantries. He looked around the crowded pub. "We must talk, but not here."

"My rooms are quiet." Celebrimbor placed the mechanical owl in its box and stood. "I'll settle the tab." He nodded to his grandfather. "You know the way. I'll meet you there."

Fëanáro stood as well and met Elrond's gaze. "Did your lady like the brooch?"

A flush heated Elrond's cheeks, and he shook his head. "I did not give it to her. Not yet." Seeing Glorfindel's interested gaze, he gestured and turned. "Let us seek quieter surroundings." He missed Fëanáro's shrug as Glorfindel looked at him and the slight smile.

***

Celebrimbor caught up with them before they reached his quarters. He let them in and made sure they would not be disturbed before putting aside the toy owl and bringing another box. He placed it on the table where everybody could see it and opened it.

“So, these two are the source of our concern,” muttered Glorfindel. The beauty of the rings was undeniable, but he could also sense their power, as well as the protective aura the box itself created. A lot could be said about Fëanáro’s descendants, but at least his grandson learned from his mistakes, judging by how carefully he acted.

“There are three,” Celebrimbor corrected him. “Galadriel has the third one.”

“Galadriel?” Glorfindel raised his eyebrow in disbelief. From what he had seen, those two seemed to have a rather stormy relationship.

Celebrimbor must have guessed his thoughts, for he smiled mirthlessly. “She was nearest when I needed counsel, and she is powerful. And,” he smirked, “considering our previous... misunderstandings, I doubt Sauron will guess I could have given one of the rings to her of all people.”

“That would be an understatement,” muttered Elrond, but then his sharp gaze rested on Celebrimbor. “So, who knows about these rings?”

 “The king. Galadriel. You,” Celebrimbor looked at each of them. “I don’t know who Ereinion will share this news with. I spoke to none of my friends directly about the purpose of our journey here, but I expect at least some of them to know or suspect something. We were working on the other rings together and my aims were not a secret among my fellow smiths, but you can trust them not to share our secrets. Working with the dwarves has made us a bit more secretive, I guess,” he smiled thoughtfully.

“It can’t hurt to be cautious,” remarked Glorfindel.

Celebrimbor nodded grimly, then explained briefly the purpose he had when he had made the rings. He mentioned other, lesser rings, but also those gifted already to the leaders of men and dwarves. As he spoke, Glorfindel realized the matter was more complex than he initially suspected. He watched Elrond sink in at his chair, as the king’s herald got the full view of what had been done and what could possibly await them all in the coming future. No one really interrupted the smith, so they were all startled when they heard a knocking to the doors. Celebrimbor shut the box and swept it into the top drawer of his desk before heading to the doors to unlock them.

Elrond rose immediately as Gil-galad appeared at the doorstep, but the king made a vague gesture and stopped him. He came in, followed by Galadriel, whose expression was unreadable as usual.

“I was hoping I would find you here, Celebrimbor,” said the king, his gaze taking the occupants of the room. “I should have expected you to share the news. Good, we can settle some matters in here, since you are already present.”

“My guess is you do not wish to discuss the Rings in front of that whole court of yours,” remarked Fëanáro, a hint of mirthless smile playing on his lips. “Let’s keep it in the family?”  
“Indeed.”

The box returned on the table and suddenly Celebrimbor turned to his grandfather, the Ring of Fire on his open palm.

“Fëanáro, I would like you to take this one for safekeeping.”

At first mesmerized by the sight of the fire that seemed to glint within the ruby set in gold, Fëanáro looked then at Celebrimbor with surprise. That was clearly the last thing he ever expected to hear. Perhaps he no longer had problems with powerful artifacts, the way he was able to speak about the Silmarils seemed to prove it, but Glorfindel could easily imagine many elves becoming more wary and suspicious about him. Fëanáro and the jewels, that had not ended well.

 “Are you sure?” asked Fëanáro finally, focusing solely on his grandson. He took the ring carefully and weighed it in his hand, deep in thoughts.

“Don’t you see? You have come from the West just as things started to go wrong again.” said Celebrimbor, his face flushed with emotions. “You won’t convince me you just happened to appear here for no reason.”

Glorfindel nodded slightly at that. Neither he nor Fëanáro had known about the Rings, but it seemed that their arrival as indeed timely.

“I don’t think that is a good idea,” stated Gil-galad a bit sourly. “And you should not just give them away like that, even for safekeeping.”

“And why is that not? They are certainly not yours to give,” snapped Celebrimbor. “I have brought them here believing that was the right and safe thing to do, considering that I am the first person Sauron will look for to get the rings. I believe keeping them separated is safer, that’s why I brought only two,” he looked pointedly at Galadriel, who met his gaze and nodded. Then he turned back to Fëanáro. “But now that I see you, of all people, back in Middle-earth, I wonder... ”

“They are not mine, but you have brought them to my kingdom.” Gil-galad’s hands were still as a rock on the table and so was his gaze as he looked Celebrimbor in the eye. “You brought peril and responsibility and as such I shall treat them. Do not mistake my caution for me trying to usurp the right to your creations.”

A hint of grim smile flashed on Fëanáro’s lips. He probably knew it all too well and he was aware of the grounds of the king’s caution, mused Glorfindel.

“I thank you for your trust, but I shall not take it, Tyelperinquar,” he answered calmly. “Not now at least. If all I’ve heard is indeed true, then I need to start looking for Makalaurë," he added.

Gil-galad looked as if he was about to say something, but Fëanáro turned his sharp gaze towards him. "The enemy will be after my grandson," he hissed. "He is cruel and ruthless and he will not rest until he gets what he wants or fails ultimately. How long do you think it will take before he learns about my arrival? I don't think Sauron will hesitate for even a slightest moment if he gets an opportunity to use either me or Makalaurë as a leverage against Celebrimbor." Fëanáro looked challengingly around, but reluctant nods were the only replies he got. "Last time it was Moringotto who went after my jewels and slew my father to obtain them. I will not see my family destroyed and while I assume Ost-in-Edhil is well protected and Celebrimbor will do all he can to keep it safe, and himself within it, my son probably knows little of what is going on. And I will not take my chances."

"You are doing it all over again, Fëanáro." Galadriel's strong, clear voice cut him off before he got more agitated. Fëanáro turned sharply towards her, the piercing flame of his eyes meeting hers, cold as ice. "You are not alone in this world and Makalaurë is not the only elf we should be concerned about. Sauron will not go only after Celebrimbor. He will be after all of us. Do not turn that into your private affair again."

Later Glorfindel would swear Fëanáro was this close from letting that famous spirit of his explode, which for a moment left him speechless. He slumped back on his seat, but kept his chin up.

"I am not asking for your help, Artanis. Nor yours," he looked around challengingly. "I have told you already, Ereinion, that I am not going to hold any claims for kingship in these lands. That is your duty, Ereinion Gil-galad and I seek not to disturb you. As you shall leave me free to see to my errands."

“When do you want to leave?” asked Glorfindel suddenly, his arms crossed on his chest. “Have you thought where we should start searching?”

“We?” repeated Fëanáro in surprise. At first he looked like he was going to add something snarky, but clearly thought better of it and nodded in thanks. “As soon as possible. Tomorrow, if I manage to obtain a decent map. Or, preferably, a guide.”

"My king.” Elrond rose from his seat and stood before Gil-galad. “Would you grant me permission to assist lord Fëanáro in his search?" he asked, his intent stare almost burning a hole in his king. "I am well familiar with the grounds along the shore and... Maglor was once fond of me. Perhaps I will be able to help. I admit I long to see him as well."

To say that Gil-galad looked displeased would be an understatement. The king regarded his herald with mixed feelings. Glorfindel knew Ereinion despised the possibility of bringing Maglor into his city and all the troubles it was bound to cause, but there was some truth in Fëanáro’s reasoning. Not that he could be reasoned with, mused Glorfindel, curious what the king was going to say.

“No, Elrond. I am sure Fëanáro will be able to find someone willing to accompany him to show him the way,” replied Gil-galad finally. “Your place is here and we have a lot to discuss.”

Elrond nodded shortly in acknowledgement and retreated to his seat. He kept his expression blank; no doubt a skill learned long time ago at the Court.

 

Gil-galad glanced at Fëanáro, who calmed visibly once assured no one would interfere with his plans. “You were right. I don’t wish to share all the details with my Court, though I will inform them about the situation and the possible threats to be dealt with. I trust none of the matters discussed here will leave these walls, especially any information regarding who personally possesses the rings. We need to be careful. What do you intend to do, Celebrimbor?”

Asking instead of ordering, that usually worked better, realized Glorfindel; something Turgon had forgotten at some point.

“With your permission, I would like to leave the rings in your care and return to Ost-in-Edhil. I shall speak with the dwarves and I will have scouts sent East.”

“As shall I,” said Galadriel. She had been silent for most of the time, observing her uncle warily. “My husband is still in Mithlond. I will return to him and I will pass the news to Círdan. I think he should have the full picture.”

“I agree.” Gil-galad rose. “Whatever comes, we should be prepared as much as we can.”

As Glorfindel watched him leave, he wondered if that would be enough.

***

"My king..."

Gil-galad turned away from his office and walked towards a private garden, deep in thought. Belatedly, he realized Elrond was to his right, and he met the gaze of his herald. "Will you walk with me?" He noted the frown, even as Elrond nodded, and they entered the garden through a narrow door. "You did not like my answer to you, did you?"

"I would like to know why you denied my request."

With a nod, Gil-galad walked to a bench under a bare-limbed tree and sat. There were tiny buds on the limbs, he noted. Before long it would bloom and fill the air with fragrance. "Sit, Elrond, please."

Elrond obeyed, but sat stiffly, his hands curled on his thighs.

Gil-galad sat as well, near enough that his shoulders almost touched Elrond, and he sighed. "Will you tell me why you wish to go with Fëanáro so badly?"

"It is not because of Fëanáro only." Slanting a glance at his king, Elrond frowned. "You can understand my curiosity about him."

"Of course." Smiling, Gil-galad stretched out his legs. "One of the most brilliant minds of our people, a gifted creator." He gestured to a lamp hanging on a post nearby. "We still use Fëanorian lamps."

Elrond nodded but hesitated before speaking. "Would it not make more sense to send someone you trust to guide him along the coastline? We rarely hear from the villages along the coast, though I know Círdan makes journeys both up and down the coast fairly frequently to see how his people are faring."

"And as an excuse to get out on the ocean in a ship." Gil-galad offered a small smile. "You know I trust you, Elrond. It was you who first saw through Annatar's disguise when he first arrived here, offering to help us." He held up a hand. "And I see the wisdom of what you are saying, that I send you to not only guide our guests from Aman, but to take the chance to check on the villages along the coast."

"You will want someone to be your ears and eyes."

"Yes." Shifting so he faced Elrond, Gil-galad searched his face. "But Fëanáro is also a relative and you have strong ties to Maglor as well."

"You fear my allegiance to you will be an impediment?" Elrond shook his head. "Ereinion, I am related to many of the elves of this Court. Have we not used that as a strength at other times, even with the Númenóreans?"

"I don't doubt your loyalty." Gil-galad blew out a breath. " I trust you, Elrond. Implicitly. My concern is more with the Council and the Court and how they will react to the knowledge that Sauron is now a real threat once again."

"Will you tell them about the rings?"

"The Council must know." Shaking his head, Gil-galad looked up through the bare branches of the tree. "You know they've had their doubts about the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and Celebrimbor."

"Yes, but until now they were unfounded." He shook his head. "They fear Celebrimbor repeating the mistakes of his grandsire and father."

"And their fears will now be justified in their eyes." Holding up his hands as Elrond scowled, Gil-galad stood. "I didn't say I agree. Though..." He looked away as if gazing into the future. "Celebrimbor's intent was good. He wanted to preserve what we have." Mouth twisting in a sour grimace, Gil-galad blew out his breath. "Sauron. We should have killed him when he first came here."

"Even if that were possible, it would not have been justified." Elrond held out his hands at the glare he was given. "We are not murderers, my king. Would we fall to Sauron's level?"

"He has proven himself false too many times for me to feel any pity for him, Elrond. Now I feel the edge of a war we do not have the strength to withstand coming upon us and I cannot help but think of how many of our people will seek to sail West in the face of this threat." He grimaced. "I cannot fault them - many of them already fought in the previous Age, and grow weary."

Elrond was silent a long while, frowning as he mulled over what his king had said. Finally he stood. "Would you rather have me go with Celebrimbor to Ost-in-Edhil and support him in whatever he endeavors to face Sauron's coming attack?"

Looking out into the night, Gil-galad slowly shook his head. "Would it turn the tide? I don't think we have the strength to repel Sauron, Elrond." It was quietly admitted, clearly painful to the king. "I fear our hope will be in our allies. In Men."

"You want me to go to Númenor and plead our case?"

Gil-galad put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "I would not ever have you plead, not to anyone." Letting his hand drop, he turned away, missing Elrond's distressed look. "No. I will send a messenger, but not you, Elrond." He knew Númenor held memories for his herald, memories that were often too painful to discuss.

"Ereinion." Elrond's voice was quiet. "What would you have me do?" He feared the look he had caught in his king's eyes; of quiet desperation. "I would not leave you when you most have need of trusted counsel."

Gaze still distant, Gil-galad shook his head. "It will take him time to build his army. Time before he marches on us." He turned to meet Elrond's gaze, look somber. "Maybe Fëanáro and Glorfindel were sent back now to help us at this moment." Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. "If only I could believe the Valar truly meant to help."

Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced as an image filled his mind. A figure filled his vision, one of fire and glorious power, both beautiful and terrifying all at once, as the vision showed him the Maia at the forge. He had never seen anything so powerful but Elrond shuddered as Sauron spoke and the gold began to glow even brighter. The very air twisted with the power of the words, and Elrond fought to free himself from the vision. Breathing as if he’d run a great distance, he snapped out of it as hands touched his face. Blinking, Elrond stared at Gil-galad, who had a hand on either side of Elrond's face.

"Elrond?"

"I saw him. Sauron, forging his own ring."

"The one ring that will control the others," Gil-galad murmured and dropped his hands. "As much as I hate to say this, I fear there is little we can do to stop Ost-in-Edhil from being attacked."

"Would you send some of our forces back with Celebrimbor if he requested it?"

Rubbing his forehead, Gil-gald grimaced. "Would he accept the help? He has refused us before. Damn Fëanorian pride."

Elrond couldn't help the small smile. "I would call it Finwian pride, my king, and say we all have our share of it."

A snort and Gil-galad met his gaze. "If he requests it, I will send what help I can."

"And my request?"

"You are tenacious, aren't you?" Without waiting for an answer, Gil-galad nodded. "Go with Fëanáro, Elrond. Try to keep him in check if things don't go well with Maglor."

It was a large request, but Elrond nodded. "Glorfindel is going as well."

Gil-galad nodded and held Elrond's gaze. "I believe you will find a staunch ally in him."

"You do realize he is Fëanáro's nephew." Elrond couldn't help the smile.

"I do, but his loyalty is entirely to you."

"Me." Elrond stared blankly. "He was sent to strengthen our fight against Sauron, was he not?"

"Officially perhaps." Gil-galad smiled and turned to walk towards the garden gate. "But I suspect if it comes down to it, he's going to make it his job to be wherever you are." He turned at the gate. "Or did you forget he was one of your great-grandfather's liege men?"

"No?"

"Elrond." Gil-galad laughed softly at the confusion in his herald's face. "Rather than remaining in Aman, where Turgon undoubtedly is or will be when he's released from Mandos, Glorfindel is here, right where Turgon's great-grandson is, right when a strong ally is most needed. To me that speaks of loyalty that goes beyond an oath to one person." He nodded and turned. "Let me know what your plans are and what you need for the trip. I'll see that you have it."

"Thank you, my king." Elrond stood where he was as Gil-galad left the garden, pondering all that they had discussed. The moon had risen higher in the sky before he left the garden to seek Fëanáro and see when he planned to ride out and seek Maglor. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, they are going on an adventure! :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update. Will wonders never cease? ;)

 

For long days their journey was quiet and uneventful. Traveling north, they used main roads leading from one village to another. They decided it would be unlikely for Maglor to pick southern lands, as many elves from Doriath and Sirion dwelled there and Cirdan would have heard about a lone singer waking on his shores. They doubted they would have any luck on the main tracts, but there was little point in travelling through the wilderness without trying to learn something from the villagers. Besides, Elrond had duties to perform. They stopped at every village they passed. Elrond would inquire about the local authorities and then warn them about the possible coming threat, then listen to the issues he would later pass to the king. Glorfindel and Fëanáro usually stood aside, leaving Elrond to his errands and spending the time to make some inquiries on their own.

Even if they attempted to keep their identity secret, it was nearly impossible, so they soon gave up on even trying. Being secretive aroused questions and some of the villagers, especially the Sindar, regarded the two elves from Valinor with suspicion. The revelation about their identity brought equally strong emotions, and not always positive ones, but at least there was no space left for wondering.

However, each visit left them more frustrated. They learned nothing. Oh there were many travelers passing the villages, but no one remembered someone introducing himself as Maglor. And even if he did, the chances were small he would have been remembered; few wanted to have anything to do with the kin-slayer. They were never interested in tales that could indicate Maglor was a part of them. Once or twice someone more willing to talk with Fëanáro about his son suggested that perhaps Maglor was a part of some wandering company. Or perhaps he had died long time ago, not that anyone would miss him. Glorfindel had to grasp Fëanáro after this remark and pull him back, before the whole conversation turned into a disaster.

Finally they rode into uninhabited lands, north of Harlond, and the mood of the three elves became lighter. With only crashing o waves, the cries of birds and occasionally a rookery of seals, the song of the wind kept them company. Occasionally one of them would start singing, and the others would join in, though Fëanáro knew much older songs and would teach them to his companions.

Several weeks into the journey, they first heard the faint sound of music, as if coming from a great distance. 

Fëanáro listened and pointed. "That direction."

"Let's follow it and see." Glorfindel didn't like the desperate longing he read in Fëanáro's eyes. It hurt to see it, knowing that Maglor was likely going to prove very elusive. "Ecthelion loved to play reed flutes." He glanced at Elrond with a smile. "He made them for your father."

"Wouldn't it be something if it was Ecthelion?"

Glorfindel snorted. "His being here would be a tale *I* would demand to hear." He explained, seeing Elrond's blank look, "Ecthelion was not free of Mandos' company yet when I sailed. If it was he, I'd want to hear how he cozened Námo into letting him go so quickly."

"Perhaps he sang." 

Shaking his head, Glorfindel followed Fëanáro's trail into the oat grass on the low sand dunes. "I suspect Námo was only convinced one time alone, Elrond, and that by your foremother, Lúthien."

"Hush." Fëanáro held out a hand as the music stopped. "Be still."

Minutes passed as the wind wound through the swaying pines and oat grass, playing with the three elves' hair before continuing on to the sea, but the wind carried no music save its own. 

Fëanáro frowned. "Do we continue in that direction?"

"We might as well." Elrond compared where they were to the map in his mind. "If memory serves, there is a hollow beyond that ridge of trees that would serve someone as a good shelter from the wind."

With a nod, Fëanáro continued forward, picking out the easiest path up the steep ridge, avoiding the loose shale and thick ground cover. They startled a small herd of deer and paused to watch them bound out of sight. Glorfindel sighed. "Too bad we didn't have a bow at the ready. We could have had venison tonight."

"No sense wasting what we cannot carry." Fëanáro continued on, leaving Elrond to shrug and follow.

A short while later, they topped the ridge and looked down into the hollow. There was smoke rising in a small column and the sound of laughter carried to the three elves. 

"More than one person." 

"Elves." Elrond smiled. "Perhaps they know something of Maglor's whereabouts."

Even before he finished speaking, Fëanáro was striding forward, slipping a bit on the loose rocks of the deer path. It was enough noise to alert the elves below to their arrival and before long they saw four elves with bows warily watching them descend the ridge. "Hail!" Fëanáro greeted them as he took the last few steps off the deer path into a small clearing. He stopped as the elves said nothing. One turned and disappeared into the thick grove of trees behind them while the other three elves stayed where they were. 

"Wait." Elrond grasped Fëanáro's arm before he could say more. His voice was so low it was almost too quiet to hear. "They are wood-elves. Let's be cautious and not give our names as yet."

Fëanáro pursed his lips, displeasure clear, but gave one short nod and crossed his arms. 

Before too many minutes had passed a new elf came out of the grove and stopped, black eyebrows rising above blue-grey eyes. "I would swear I was dreaming if it wasn't for seeing you standing there as clear as day, Elrond Eärendilion. Glorfindel! Is that truly you?"

Laughing, Glorfindel strode forward as the other elf threw out his arms. "You old rebel!"

As they embraced, Fëanáro shook his head. "Do you know this elf, Elrond?"

Smiling at the reunion of old friends, Elrond nodded. "His name is Gildor Inglorion. He was of Finrod's house. He is the leader of a group of exiled elves who wander Middle-earth." Turning to look at Fëanáro, he added, "Finding him was extraordinary luck. He'll likely know something of Maglor, or at least where he was last seen."

"Good." Fëanáro strode forward, coming up to stand next to Glorfindel who released Gildor and turned with a brilliant smile. 

"Gildor, you remember-"

"Sweet stars of Varda!" Gildor's eyes widened and he stared for a moment before laughing. "Has old Námo come to his senses at last and let the pack of them go?"

"No." Fëanáro was a little surprised at the reaction, but it was better than having someone tell him he belonged in that Everlasting Darkness he had sworn to. "Only myself."

"Fëanáro Finwion, as I live and breathe." Gildor shook his head, long black braids sliding over his shoulders. He sketched a light bow, still grinning. "I am Gildor Inglorion. I don't know that it's good to see you or if it means the end of the world is nigh, but come meet my merry troupe of wanderers. Be welcome and join us at our fire!"

  

* * *

 

"My lord, Glorfindel."

He knew the voice, but it was from another life, another time. It evoked memories that he had carefully locked away. They had no place in this new life, but he turned and the smile he offered was genuine. "Elemmakil!" Glorfindel reached out to embrace the other elf, but didn't miss the tears in the other's eyes. Pulling back, he said, "How happy I am to see you alive and well, my friend."

"Funny." A smile quirked the dark-haired elf's lips. "I was going to say that about you." He sobered, and seemed hesitant but finally asked, "My lord, is Ecthelion...is he...."

 Taking pity, Glorfindel shook his head. "When I left he was yet in Mandos, but I am certain he will not linger long."

"You know Erestor is here. His son. He lives in Harlond."

"I had a long conversation with him actually."

Elemmakil smiled, still a little full of wonder at seeing Glorfindel again. "Would you like to come meet my wife and daughter?" He took a step back. "That is if you're not -"

"I would love to meet your family, Elemmakil." Glorfindel gestured for him to lead the way. "Tell me how you met..."

 

* * *

 

 

There were more people in the grove of trees than Fëanáro expected. He wondered how many of the elves gathered actually wandered with Gildor. It seemed an odd lifestyle to him, to have no permanent home, but to travel from place to place. He and Nerdanel had journeyed around Aman before Nelyo had been born and they had been blissfully happy, but neither of them had wanted to do so forever. Especially once Nelyo had been born.

And now here he was again, wandering Middle-earth in search of his surviving son. How many years had Maglor traveled, alone, bereft of his brothers? The thought was terribly depressing and Fëanáro had just turned to walk away when he realized there was someone standing nearby. Turning, he frowned at the unfamiliar face. 

"Forgive me for staring." The elf didn't seem overly embarrassed to be caught out as she smiled easily. "It's just that my parents told me so many stories about you that I feel I know you." As he kept silent, she added, "My mother was one of your apprentices. So was my father, but he decided later that he really loved stone work."

A name came to Fëanáro then, along with the face of a smiling elf. One of his more cheerful failures - or rather one of his apprentices who happily found the forge was not for him. "Cemendur and Lindissë." They had been loyal supporters, following him to Middle-earth. "I don't recall them having children."

"I was born here in Middle-earth." 

Apart from the dark hair and grey eyes common to the Noldor, there was little he could see of her parents in her, but she had her father's smile. In more peaceful times he remembered Cemendur had loved to sing when working. At times it had been annoying, but the children had enjoyed it. "Are your parents here, with Gildor?"

Some of the joy drained away as she shook her head. "Ammë sailed after the War of Wrath. Atar was already dead." She held out her hand and Fëanáro was pleased to see there were calluses on her hand; perhaps she continued her mother's work. She had a strong grip as well. "I am Fíriel, my lord. There are several more of us whose parents followed Maedhros and Maglor." Fíriel smiled. "Won't you come and join us? We would be honored to have your presence."

To his surprise, Fëanáro found he was smiling back. "I would enjoy that. Thank you."

 

* * *

 

 Gildor looked up as Elrond sat down across the fire from him. "You look weary, Elrond."

"I am." With a smile and he accepted the mug of warmed wine Gildor passed to him. "It has been interesting accompanying Fëanáro and Glorfindel."

Chuckling, Gildor sat back against the log at his back. "I can imagine they keep you on your toes."

"In more ways than one." Elrond shook his head. "I've forgotten what it is like to travel with Amanian Elves. They need little rest."

"Ah, they're both restless souls, those two. Always need to stay busy with something." Gildor grinned. "Not like you and I, hmm? Happy to sit and get engrossed in some dusty tome."

Elrond arched an eyebrow. "Am I mistaken in thinking you've travelled much of Middle-earth? I cannot see you having much time to sit and read."

"I find my time," Gildor said with a laugh. "I spent a large part of one winter reading when we wandered far up north." He shook his head. "It snowed so much I wasn't certain we would ever manage to dig out, but when spring finally arrived, all two months of it, we headed south." 

Elrond shifted to sit forward, and dropped his voice. "Gildor, do you have any idea where Maglor might be?" He sighed. "It's been years since I saw him last, but Feanaro is desperate to find him."

"Can't say I'm certain." Leaning forward to free a braid trapped behind him, Gildor thought for a moment. "We were up the coastline a bit farther north than here, when we heard singing. I was sure it was him. No mistaking that voice, is there?"

"No." Elrond heard it in his dreams sometimes, and remembered the nights Maglor had sat with him and Elros, and sang them to sleep, warding off their bad dreams. "If he does not want to be found it will be nigh impossible."

Gildor nodded then smiled. "Then you'd best hope he wants to be found." He held up a hand at Elrond's pained look. "Don't worry too much, Elrond. There's precious little that can hide from a wood-elf, and I'll send the best of our scouts out to search for him. They'll find Maglor."

He sounded so certain. Elrond hoped, he really did, but he knew how canny his foster-father could be. "Fëanáro will not rest until he finds him."

"I can well believe that. But enough of that." Gildor plucked a harp from a nearby pack and ran his fingers over the strings. "Will you be so kind as to grace us with a song, Elrond Eärendilion?"

Setting the cup of wine aside, Elrond smiled and reached for the harp. "I warn you, it has been a while since I've played. What would you like to hear?"

"A song of your choosing."

Elrond tested the tuning before bending his head and quieting his heart and mind. A song came to him, a lovely song, rather simple, that had been taught to him and Elros when they had been children. With a smile, he began to play.

 

* * *

 

He went searching for Fëanáro when he heard Elrond begin to sing. The song was one every grandchild of Finwë knew; how many times had Glorfindel lay before the fire listening to his grandfather's deep voice singing that very song? The memories were a sweet ache in his heart, but he knew it might cause Fëanáro deep pain.

Heading towards the small stream that ran at the foot of the grove, Glorfindel found Fëanáro sitting on a large rock in the middle of the stream where the water ran the loudest. Crouching down, Glorfindel let the water run over his fingers. "He does not know from whence the song came."

Fëanáro was a shadow in the dark, only the tree-lit eyes sharp against the darkness. "He learned it from my son."

Glorfindel nodded and reached up to pull his hair back, loosely braiding it. "And one day he will teach it to his children, thus keeping the tradition alive here in Middle-earth." He could feel his uncle's discontented sorrow like an ache in his own bones and wondered yet again if the Valar were punishing Fëanáro by sending him to Middle-earth when all but one of his sons was in Námo's halls. The hope of Maglor accepting his father after all that had happened was a dim one. Not at first, at least. Glorfindel hoped their bond, one of the strongest he had ever seen between a father and son, would win out over all the pain and anger. "Will you come back to the fire, Fëanáro? Rest a bit, perhaps. Gildor has promised to take us to the sea tomorrow morning. He says he wants to show us something."

"I am not weary." 

Nodding, Glorfindel stood. It was a clear dismissal, and he turned to begin walking back up to the grove. 

"Laurë."

He turned back at his name.

"Ask him not to sing that song." The voice was raw, rough. "Any song but that one."

"I will." Elrond would understand. How could he not? Glorfindel strode away.

 

* * *

  

"Do you ever sleep?"

Glorfindel smiled at the sleep-heavy voice and added a branch to the fire. "Of course." He shrugged. "But I did nothing but rest in the Halls for thousands of years." 

Elrond pulled his cloak around his shoulders and nodded, still feeling a bit out of sorts at being awakened so early. He sat and looked around, groggy from the wine and too little sleep. "Where are Gildor's folk?"

"Oh...they wander off to various parts of the forest apparently." Glorfindel gestured upwards. "Some sleep in the trees."

"Odd folk."  
It brought a smile to Glorfindel's mouth. "Have you ever met any of the Avari?"

Elrond shook his head. "Have you?"

"Once." Glorfindel sighed. "Long, long ago, when we first arrived on these shores. We hunted too far one day, chasing a stag, and found ourselves at the arrow-point of some very annoyed elves." He laughed. "Ecthelion thought they were Green-elves at first, angry at our hunting at all, but after we sorted out the language difference...." He met Elrond's interested gaze. "We discovered they were Avari. They remembered Cuiviénen, if you can imagine that!" Glorfindel looked away, tone wistful. "I wish we could have spent more time with them."

"You could always go looking for them now."

Considering the idea, Glorfindel nodded. "Someday, perhaps. When the enemy is not so determined to wipe us all from the face of Arda." He studied Elrond for a moment. "You could join me, you know. Imagine the stories they would tell!"

Elrond couldn't help smiling. There was just something about the other elf that engendered good-will. "It would be incredible to hear them." He shook his head, thinking of all that awaited him back in Harlond, and of his duties. "But that day is far off. There is always something else needing my attention."

The remark seemed to disquiet Glorfindel, who looked away. When he looked back, there was something ancient in his gaze, something that belied the usual merriment. "Well then. We will just have to try harder to find the joy in each day, even if it means a few unforeseen circumstances."

Wondering exactly what that meant, Elrond did not get the chance to ask as Gildor joined them, cheerfully promising food to break their fast before heading for the coast, and the sea.

 

* * *

 

They had set the horses free wander and graze before they walked down the beach. Gildor had led them several leagues up the coast before stopping and silently pointing. Elrond let Fëanáro and Glorfindel go ahead, falling still as he saw them both stop and stare out at the immense span of water stretching to the horizon. 

"There..." Glorfindel shook his head and took several steps into the sea, ignoring the waves washing against him. "All of it. Sunk. Gone."

Fëanáro looked grim, face paler than normal as the wind picked up and blew his hair across his face. "The Valar did this. Sank all of Beleriand."

When Elrond stayed silent, Gildor moved forward to stand next to Glorfindel. "They said the land was too tainted, too broken from the wars with Morgoth to be left as it was." Gaze distant, he scanned the horizon. "You can see a bit of what was Himring there." He pointed. "And another jut of land, Tol Morwen."

Glorfindel turned to look sharply at him. "Named after Hurin's wife?"

"Yes." Gildor gave a nod. "Her grave is there."

A tear rolled down his face as Glorfindel put a hand to his heart. "Hurin and Huor saved our lives, you know. In that retreat during the Nirnaeth." He swallowed hard and shook his head. "No one should have had such a fate."

Gildor set a hand on his shoulder, well aware of the power of seeing the land gone, and so much changed for both of the returned elves. Those events were fresh in their minds, whereas for everyone else it had been thousands of years. Time to let the wounds heal a bit, to not ache quite so fiercely. "He's found his rest now, Glorfindel."

Shaking his head, Glorfindel clenched his jaw and looked to Fëanáro who was staring at Himling, the remains of his eldest son's fortress, Himring. "Do you wish to go there?"

"Yes."

"Is there a boat-" Glorfindel froze as the waves suddenly swept out towards the sea, the water seething as it built and built into an enormous wave. He took a step backwards and reached out to grab Fëanáro's arm. "I think we should-"

"Back!" Elrond grabbed Fëanáro's other arm. "Get back, get out of the water!" He pulled hard, breaking Feanaro's stance and dragging him backwards. 

"I want to go to the island!" Fëanáro fought against the two elves holding him, trying to break free, to get to that bit of land and see for himself.

" _MURDERERS_." The voice was the boom of thunder and the crash of a thousand waves upon the shore. It shook the ground, sending the elves staggering backwards as the massive waves began to form the shape of a man. "KIN-SLAYERS!"

Fëanáro stopped struggling at the sight of the angry Maia and turned to join the others in running for dry land. He staggered as a wave swept in and washed his feet out from under him, sending him tumbling into Glorfindel and Gildor.

" **On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also.** " The voice was terrible to hear, full of screams and crying, as if all of the victims of the kin-slayings had been gathered to the sea and were now speaking from the waves. 

"Hail, Ossë!" Elrond placed himself between the angry Maia and the three fallen elves, his hands held out. "Hear me, Ossë! Hear me, for I am the son of Elwing, and Lúthien is my foremother. There is no kin-slaying upon my soul!"

"They are Noldor!" the voice boomed with whale-song and wind, the cries of gulls making the three elves on the ground cover their ears in pain. "Kin-slayers! Murderers!" Ossë towered above them now, blocking the sun, and the wind tore at their hair and clothing, kicking up sand and spitting it spitefully against any exposed skin as they lay on the sand, hands over their heads. "They showed no mercy and nor shall I."

Elrond, standing in the eye of the storm, drew in a deep breath and began to sing. He sang of redemption, of sacrifices made, of forgiveness and the love of a father for his children. Pouring power into the song, Elrond sang of souls washed clean, and trembling elves standing before the Valar in the Máhanaxar, listening to the judgment spoken against them. He sang of honor and bravery, and began to hope when the storm raging around him was answered by a separate wave that pushed in and rose to meet Ossë.

"Husband." Her voice was that of the trade winds and the many kinds of life that lived in the depths of the sea. All the beauty of the sun shining through the waves and the joy of dolphins as they leaped and played was in Uinen as she reached to stroke back a long strand of Ossë's seaweed hair. "Listen to the son of Elwing and use your eyes. Let go the past and  ** _see_**." She turned her eyes, brimming with darting fish that were brilliant yellow and purple, blue and so many colors that it was dizzying to meet her gaze, and held a hand up to Elrond. "Hail, Elrond, son of Gil-estel."

Elrond bowed low, hand to his heart. "Hail, Uinen, Queen of Mermaids." 

Ossë was silent, but the waves continued to boil and seethe around his form. Finally he spoke, and his voice no longer thundered, but sounded with the depths of a fathomless sea. "How is it that Fëanáro son of Finwë again walks these lands? Everlasting Darkness was the doom of your own making."

Putting himself in front Fëanáro, Elrond stood his ground. "He has been sent back by the Valar, Lord Ossë. If they see fit to say his soul is washed clean of his deeds, then who am I to say they are wrong?"

"And Glorfindel of Gondolin." Uinen bent closer, and long strands of kelp and a sea star fell to the beach. "Strange fates indeed for two elves." A wave swept up to catch the sea star and carry it back into the sea, leaving the kelp behind. "We shall leave you to whatever end this life brings. Won't we, husband?"

Ossë smirked at the three elves still laying prone on the beach. "Of course, Uinen." He laughed and a shower of kelp and sea slugs rained down on Fëanáro, Glorfindel and Gildor as Ossë's form collapsed back into the ocean. 

"Farewell, Eärendilion." Uinen melted back into the waves and was gone, leaving Elrond to turn and look at his three companions. 

He tried not to grin, but seeing a sea slug perched upon Glorfindel's head like some unusual ornament, and kelp dangling from Fëanáro's ears, he began to laugh.

"All right then." Gildor stood, boots squelching with water and chuckled as he pulled his soaked tunic away from his skin. "That went well, considering."

Glorfindel grimaced as he reached up to feel just what was moving around on his head. He pulled the bright pink and yellow sea slug off his hair, making a face as it pulled oozing strands with it and stood. "I, for one, am content to dry off, find some nice stream to wash my hair in, and not go sailing for now." He set the slug into the water and watched a wave sweep it away. "I've had enough sea today." Glorfindel was quick to back away from the waves. 

Fëanáro sat where he was, staring out at the sea. Finally he sighed and reached to pull the kelp from his ears. "We were fortunate Elrond was here."

"Yes." Glorfindel met Elrond's gaze. "Thank you. That was very brave of you."

"You're welcome." Elrond held out a hand to help Fëanáro stand. "You're all soaked. We should get a fire going and get your clothing dry. It's going to be a cool night and the fog is moving in already."

Gildor nodded and met Fëanáro's gaze. "Can't go out in that, my lord. We'd be lost and then stars alone know what would become of us."  
"We'd be slug food," Glorfindel muttered and pulled a wad of slime off his head with a grimace. Shaking it off his hand, he sighed. "Please, let us find water so I can get my hair clean."

Lips quirking in a smile, Fëanáro nodded. "Of course. Hair first. You Vanyar."

Gildor intervened quickly with a laugh and winked at Glorfindel who looked put out. "Follow me. I know of a stream near here, and a clearing that will work for a camp."

Fëanáro lingered a bit longer, staring out at the sea, the distant island of Himling almost gone as the sun sailed below the horizon and the fog swept over the sea, towards land. He blinked at the sudden burning in his eyes and turned to follow the others.

It was sea water. Nothing but sea water.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're hard at work at the next part. Thank you for reading, and for all your lovely reviews! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spring is coming slowly and it seems our muses are less sleepy, so here's another chapter :)

**Chapter IX**

 

"I thought you wanted to go to the island?" Gildor emerged from between the trees, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he regarded his companions. "Or are you going to spend here all day, cooking?" The mist had been gone by the morning, the sun rising on the clear blue sky, promising a warm day after a chilly night.

Glorfindel sent him a dark look. They had just managed to convince Fëanáro that having a decent meal before sailing was a good idea, as they had no idea how long it would take them to get to the island. Elrond claimed it was advisable to eat, especially if Fëanáro wasn't exactly comfortable with sailing. Glorfindel tried to tease him about such an understatement, but Fëanáro all but ignored him, sitting silent and watching the food, as if he intended to hasten it with his stare.

"We thought you abandoned our merry company," said Glorfindel. "Where were you this early hour of the day?"

"The day was all bright when I left," objected Gildor. "Hardly my fault you decided to sleep till noon! But I at least have not been idle. There's a boat waiting for you on the beach. Just please try not to drown it, I promised to give it back."

"Wonderful." The smile on Fëanáro’s lips was far from cheerful, but he seemed satisfied. "Thank you."

"Are you not joining us?" inquired Elrond, rolling his blanket and placing it with the rest of their belongings.

"Nay, I've had enough of the sea for the next century or so and my boots are not yet dry." Gildor shook his head and sat by the fire. "Besides, someone has to stay with the horses and I guess yesterday's incident rules you out of it, Elrond. It's best for you to go with Fëanáro."

“I agree.” Glorfindel set the bowls on the ground and stirred the stew. “It’s best to have you around in case Osse is not going to listen to his wife.”

“It’s settled then. We shall leave soon. And I think you should take this little bud with us, back to the sea," Elrond smiled and pointed at something.

Fëanáro followed his gaze and spotted a tiny crab tirelessly trying to climb the heel of his boot standing nearby.

"I'm glad it's not inside," he muttered and shook off the crab. He looked suspiciously into his boots before putting them on. The crab paused and hid into its shell, its claws clicking furiously and its eyes... Those black eyes were staring at the elf who had taken away its climbing cliff.

"Uinen would be pleased."

"Perhaps I should take this one hostage to ensure our safe passage," not in the slightest amused, Fëanáro put his spoon to the pot over the fire and tried the stew. "I think it's ready.”

***

The sun had reached the highest point of the sky before they finally set off. There was a boat waiting for them, just the size that would allow them to sit comfortably and steer it easily. They settled in it and started rowing, both Glorfindel and Fëanáro glaring at the sea, as if expecting it to rebel at any moment.

Fëanáro paled as the boat swayed gently, but he just stared at the bench before him and rowed, leaving the steering to Elrond.

The sea stayed calm, gulls flying occasionally over the boat, sometimes diving next to them, but otherwise their travel was uneventful and they soon eased. They kept silent, agreeing that it was best to keep low and not attract Osse’s attention. So when Fëanáro shivered suddenly and froze, both his companions looked at him questioningly.

"Whatever it is, please take it off my braid," he hissed through his gritted teeth.   
"Who's worried about hair now?" Glorfindel chuckled, but leaned forward and grasped the tiny crab that changed the belt from Fëanáro’s bag for his braid. "I thought you were supposed to bring it back to the sea, not keep it."  
"We _are_ on the sea," Fëanáro pointed out, continuing to row. His gaze was glued to the spot he had chosen.   
"It seems to like you."  
"Missing your slug? Just toss it back to the water," Fëanáro shrugged and his knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the paddles.   
"Well, we are not keeping it," decided Elrond, taking the crab from Glorfindel and gently putting it back to the sea. “Look, we are not that far.”

Fëanáro risked a glance towards the island. The ruins were now well visible and way more grim than they seemed from afar; a witness to the time passed, time gone while the two returnees had dwelt in the Halls of Mandos...

As soon as the bottom of the boat touched the sand, Fëanáro was out of it, the other two following him, pushing the boat on the beach. They dragged it deep into the land until they were certain no tide would take it away.

“Best to be sure Osse won’t play some nasty trick on us,” remarked Glorfindel as they were securing the boat. “I’d rather not learn he has changed his mind.”

“Let’s hope he won’t. Hmm, it took us longer to get here than I expected.” Elrond tossed his bag over his shoulder, looking at the sun slowly reaching the horizon. “I suggest we climb up to the fortress, we should get a good view on the island from there.”

“And see if there’s any sign of life around,” nodded Fëanáro, picking his belongings as well.

 “I really hope Maglor doesn’t live here,” said Glorfindel quietly, glancing around. “This is no place to dwell for long.”

The land was weeping. They felt it as soon as they started climbing the hill towards the ruins of the fortress towering over the island. The bare rocks were full of despair, even after all this time remembering the evil force that tainted the ground and burdened souls that had once dwelt in there. The island was a grim reminder of the times long gone and it seemed to show the Valar’s decision to sink Beleriand in a new light. Perhaps they hadn’t been so wrong...

As they reached the top, the day was not yet gone, the grey stones around them painted red and orange with the setting sun. Having left their belongings by what probably used to be the outer walls, they decided to have a quick look around the remains of the fortress before settling for the night.

“This must have been the great hall,” said Elrond, striding forwards to where stone arches were still holding parts of the ceiling. “Look, there was a fire place here, and there…” he continued, passing arch after arch.

Closing his eyes, Fëanáro could see the picture Elrond was drawing. Long tables standing in rows, a great hall for dining and feasting, those times when the elves living here had an occasion to celebrate. Makalaure playing, if he was present, if not, then other musicians, all chattering, joyful and merry, and there, at the end, Maitimo, Maedhros would sit… Fëanáro shook his head. He knew how his eldest looked after captivity, how changed he was; Vaire’s tapestries, he was told, were made with great likeness. Still, it hurt to even think of his beautiful son in such a way, his Maitimo… But he knew it wasn’t Maitimo who had ruled within these walls, carrying on the war his father had started. It was Maedhros, whom he had no chance to see even in the Halls of Mandos.

“You seem to act as if you’ve been here,” Glorfindel’s voice snapped Fëanáro from his thoughts.

“I feel so too, somehow,” admitted Elrond, stopping his walk around the ruins. “They would talk a lot about this place. When we were bored and demanded attention, and when they could spare their time… Maedhros sketched Himring a lot. It was hard to get him into talking about his fortress, but when he did, he would draw plans and sketch his favorite places to help the story… He was quite good, we were always mesmerized to watch him. He would later let us add to his pictures whatever we wanted,” Elrond smiled to his memories and Fëanáro found himself smiling too. Yes, that sounded like his Maitimo. It was a relief to know that his son had not been fully lost at that time.

“Maedhros used those plans to teach us strategy,” Elrond picked his tale, sensing probably that Fëanáro wished to hear everything he could. “He would explain how the Himring’s defenses were planned and then asked us to find similar solutions in Amon Ereb.”

“You must have learned a lot, seeing that you’re Ereinion’s councilor,” said Fëanáro, his gaze tracing the ornament running around a window, now mostly destroyed by time and merciless sea winds.

“I did. Maedhros was a good teacher, even if a stern one.”

Fëanáro left Elrond and Glorfindel in the remains of the hall and went across the inner yard to the northern wall that stood the highest. There were once smaller buildings leaning against it and though the wooden roofs were long since gone, the wide chimneys stood untarnished and he immediately knew what they had once been. Forges. Time and weather had been merciless and no anvil survived, or perhaps they had been stolen long time ago, but with a bit of imagination he could rebuilt the old workshops in his mind. Maedhros must have had smiths producing weapons and all sorts of items to trade with other elves.

Something snapped and Fëanáro lost balance, his leg falling knee-deep into a hole. Cursing at the rotten remains of boards that trapped his knee, he reached to remove whatever was not letting his leg out. He pulled a piece of surprisingly hard wood and breaking it, he tossed it aside. It fell on the nearest pile of trash, sending some of the bits tumbling down. A characteristic noise of metal clashing against metal caught Fëanáro’s attention. He stumbled back on his feet, glad his leg was fine if a bit bruised, and went to check what made such noise, this time looking carefully where stood. He searched for a moment until he found it.

“Are you alright there, Fëanáro?” called Elrond from the yard, his quick steps echoing against the walls. “I heard…”

“I’m fine,” replied Fëanáro distractedly, staring at the pieces in his hands. The blade of the dagger seemed dull, but the edges looked sharp; Fëanáro was not about to check that. The cross-guard was loose and there was no pommel at the end of the grip. The dagger looked half-finished, as there was no decorations except…

“What did you find?” Elrond came closer and leaned to have a better view.

“It’s Curvo’s creation,” said Fëanáro, his voice thick with emotions. “Look at the star in here,” he pointed at the mark at the end of the blade, just below the place where a hilt would come. “See the tiny lines here? It differs slightly from the star I use. Curvo made it early and picked it, so we would be able to tell apart our doings.” As a young elf, Atarinke had tended to be jealous of his creations and Fëanáro had simply found it to be useful.

“I’m glad it survived,” Elrond smiled, holding the dagger for a moment to take a closer look before returning it to Fëanáro. “I guess it can be still forged into a full blade?”

“With a little bit of work, yes,” Fëanáro nodded absent-mindedly, slipping the parts into his bag.

Elrond left Fëanáro in the remains of the forge and returned to the inner yard. The land of the island was full of sorrow, but it also reminded him of his childhood. Yes, the times were desperate back then, the elves living with the awareness that the Enemy could have swept them at any moment, but this fortress around him brought also the bittersweet memory of the two sons of Fëanáro who had raised him and his brother.

***

Glorfindel passed the remains of the hall and walked below an arch that had once probably been a gate opening on a smaller yard. This one was better protected from the wind, the walls around it still high, and Glorfindel was about to call his companions and suggest that this would be a better place to spend the night, when he noticed something by the wall opposite to the gate.

“Fëanáro... you’ll want to see this,” he called, not rising his voice too much; they were close after all. As he expected, quick steps echoed within the walls as both Fëanáro and Elrond joined him and stopped just like he had.

“Oh no...” whispered Elrond.

Fëanáro snapped from the reverie that made him freeze and marched forward, until his knees seemed to give in and he sank down.

There was a pile of rocks put neatly to create a barrow. The inscription on the flat stone above it was well visible even without dusting it.

 

_Our land is lost, and so are you all, my brothers. No body rests here and none ever will, but the memory of Maedhros son of Feanor, Nelyafinwe Maitimo, the Lord of Himring, shall be preserved forever. Fare thee well, Russandol._

 

Glorfindel remembered the ever green tomb of Fingolfin and the ache he had seen in Turgon’s eyes when he buried his father. That grave had perished, but here... Of course they knew Maedhros was gone, but seeing his memorial on one of the few remaining bits of Beleriand... He glanced sideways only to see Elrond silently swallowing tears beside him.

“Makalaure was first to call him Russandol,” Fëanáro’s tight voice broke the silence. He didn’t turn to face them, speaking as if to himself, or perhaps to memories long lost. “Nelyo hated it at first, but then Findekano picked it as well and before he knew...” he swallowed hard, his voice breaking.

For Glorfindel Maedhros had always been called Russandol, but then his cousins were much older than him. By the time Glorfindel was born Maedhros was already a grown-up and didn’t seem to mind the epessë.

“At least we know Maglor was here,” he said softly, wondering if he should approach Fëanáro, who seemed to be trying not to fall into pieces. And probably failing. “Clearly some time has passed since then, but perhaps we’ll be able to find some traces of him?” he offered, hoping that this would lift Fëanáro’s spirits if just a bit.

His uncle just nodded, no longer trusting his voice.

“We can make our presence here known... Are you going with us?” asked Elrond carefully, having composed himself. As Fëanáro just shook his head, he turned around and left reluctantly.

“You know where to find us,” said Glorfindel softly and followed the younger elf.

The ruins were no place for rest, but at least they could find some shelter from the wind. Elrond made a small fire, then another one by the remains of the main gate. If Maglor was anywhere on the island, he was bound to see it. The question whether that would lure him or scare him off was another matter, but they could at least try.

The night was closer to dawn than dusk when Fëanáro finally came back, looking distraught and cold. His eyes were red and he was shivering, but he ignored the rest of the meal they had left for him and just tossed his cloak over his shoulders and curled by the fire, his face hidden in the crook of his elbow.

If Elrond woke up, he didn’t show it, which was probably for the best. Glorfindel sighed quietly and settled on the ground. There was still some of the night left and it was unlikely someone would surprise them here.

***

They were all glad when the island stayed behind them, and with it all the grief the land still remembered. There was no other fire visible during the night from the fortress and no one came to them. Fëanáro insisted on checking the rest of the island before leaving, so they walked down, encircling the hill. They found quite well preserved road. Wherever a stone was missing, grass and small trees would grow, but where the stone road was untouched, it remained a perfect way with flat surface, each stone put so precisely it was hard to see the lines between under the layer of sand and dust.

They found nothing. If there had been someone living on this island, they must have left long ago, which wasn’t really surprising. Even in summer it was much colder on the island than it was on land. Himring the Ever-cold it had once been called and it seemed this much had not changed in this new world. They all felt that either the weather would discourage any potential inhabitants or the tainted land would drive them insane, so for once they were glad they found no sign of Maglor dwelling there.

The sea was more active as they rowed back, their tiny boat swaying on the waves. Fëanáro cursed the ever moving bench he was sitting on, but at some point he realized the waves were actually pushing them towards the land, hastening their journey, so he just gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"Never again," muttered Fëanáro as they finally reached the beach.

"I admit Cirdan's ships are way more comfortable than this little shell," admitted Elrond quietly, then raised his voice. "Lord Osse, lady Uinen, we thank you for the safe passage. We shall not disturb you more."

Not in this lifetime, if he could help it. Fëanáro glanced back at the island they had visited. He didn't regret going there, seeing the fortress and feeling the land. This memory was something he was going to keep and share with Nerdanel - all the dread, but also the light Elrond had brought back with his childhood memories. This day was yet far away, but of one Fëanáro was sure. If he was alive again, he was going to see his wife. Some day.

Maglor, wherever he was, was right. The memory of Himring and its holder would not be forgotten. That last piece of Beleriand was going to stand there for many ages, whipped by Osse's storms and showered in Arien's light; a witness to the past and a warning. With that thought, Fëanáro turned away.

"Let's return that boat to Gildor, since he was so eager to get it back."

A merry laughter came from the dunes. “Of course I want it back, I left my harp to ensure I would bring the boat back to the owner!” Gildor approached them. “I’m glad to see you have not been eaten after all.”

“So are we.”

“You’ll be pleased to know I have some news for you,” added Gildor and smiled as Fëanáro’s eyes lit with hope. “Let’s go back to your horses and my people will tell you what they have learned.”

There was a group of wood elves camping by the stream, making the spot they had picked two days earlier somewhat crowded. As Gildor explained, they parted some time ago, but he had sent for them, knowing they recently visited parts he had not seen for a long time. Tologon, he said, led the group and they would travel together from time to time. As he called him, said elf came forward. The glance he gave Fëanáro was far from friendly, but clearly he and Gildor had come to some sort of agreement, for he spoke.

“There is a place about thirty, perhaps forty miles north from here. Sometimes we would hear a song carried by the wind. Sometimes it’s just a distant tune, never really in one place, but always on the same area. We know some say there is a spirit wandering in sorrow there, but it sounded very much alive to us.”

“When was the last time you heard it?”

“Last spring.”

“I saw him, once,” added someone suddenly. An elleth, looking shy, came forward and glanced at Gildor before continuing. “It was a long time ago... A lone singer on the shores. He saw us, my companions and me, but made no sign of wishing to join us, so we let him be. But the song he was singing... Oh, the song chased us long after he disappeared.”

“That sounds like the elf we are looking for,” Elrond spoke, his voice even. That was this sort of news they were waiting for; better than they could have hoped, actually.

“Thank you.” Fëanáro nodded to both elves, then marched straight towards his horse tied to one of the trees.

“That probably means you are leaving?” Gildor turned to Elrond, as Glorfindel simply followed his uncle. “And I guess there is no point in asking you to join us tonight.”

“No point indeed,” Elrond smiled back. Seeing that Fëanáro was untying his horse as well, while Glorfindel picked the things they hadn’t taken earlier, he just waited for them.

Soon they were all ready to leave. Gildor might have been courteous enough to invite them, but it was plain the group of wood elves was not in the slightest interested in sharing the camp with Fëanáro.

“I wish you good luck,” said Gildor as they mounted their horses. “And I hope our paths will cross again when you come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for sharing your thoughts with us :) We love to hear from you.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update for Sunday :)

**Chapter X**

 

The news Gildor's friends brought them seemed to have lifted Fëanáro's spirits. Little more than a year since Maglor had been heard in but a few days of riding away from them, that sounded promising. Songs accompanied them yet again as they travelled north along the shores where the terrain would allow them to, sometimes moving deeper inlands to find fresh water coming from the hills.  
Elrond soon learned that he was wrong if he thought he knew what it was like to travel with elves born under the Light of the Trees. Had it been up to him only, Fëanáro would have hardly stopped for longer than it took to take care of the basic needs. Fortunately for Elrond, the horses needed their rest and though he had picked magnificent animals from Gil-galad's stables, there was only so much they could do a day.  
With the speed Fëanáro forced on them, they would have already reached the area they were heading to, had it not been for the rain. Summer storms came without warning, raging over the sea and drenching everything in fresh water. Soon the creeks from the hills rose from their paths, flooding the meadows and forests. The ground became tricky, hiding liquid earth under a surface of treacherous grass, making the horses fall knee deep.  
Not that a bit of rain or mud was going to stop them. They simply continued on foot, as none of them wished the horses to break their legs.

“Be careful,” Elrond warned as he skirted a boggy section of the path they were following. “With the rains, this ground is not entirely stable.”

“All right.” Glorfindel couldn’t resist testing it with his foot, watching the seemingly solid ground jiggle, but kept his horse, following him, well clear. He wondered how Elrond could tell, but shrugged it off and kept going. Middle-earth had many dangers that Aman did not, but a bog seemed a most innocuous problem.

***

"It's not that funny." Glorfindel valiantly tried to free his leg yet again, resulting in only a squelchy sucking sound, but no freedom.

The mud was winning.

"Laurë, free yourself and let's get moving." Fëanáro shook his head at his nephew's antics. "Elrond, stop encouraging him."

Elrond, who was struggling not to laugh, pressed his lips together as his shoulders shook.

Glorfindel took exception to the comment, and crossed his arms. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think I was just standing here, sinking up to my hips in mud, for fun?" He grimaced as the mud made another sucking sound, pulling him a bit farther down. "Elrond, here, for star's sake. Take my sword before the mud claims it as well."

Taking the sword, Elrond set it on solid ground, nowhere near the treacherous puddle, and began to look around for something that could be used to get his companion out of his current predicament.

"How did you manage to find the one bottomless mud hole anyways?" Fëanáro, accepting the situation was not deliberate as Glorfindel began to look a bit worried, sighed and set his pack down. "Elrond, do we have a good length of rope?"

"Yes, in the pack." Elrond immediately ran to the horse with the item and pulled it free. He called to his horse, and when it came over, fastened the rope to the saddle, then through the rings on the breast collar, and back to the other side of the saddle rings. Tying it securely, he took the long, loose end and threw it to Glorfindel. "Get a good grip!"

Glorfindel did one better and wrapped it around his forearms before griping it tightly. "Any time..."

Standing at the horse's head, Elrond urged it forward, encouraging it when the resistance against it became stronger.

Fëanáro lent his strength to the pulling, digging in his heels and pulling on the rope.

The sucking sound as the mud fought to keep its elven prize was reminiscent of something quite disgusting, but Glorfindel didn't care.

He did care that his clothing was being dragged off as he was pulled forward. "Wait! Wait! My boot is coming off!"

"And how do you propose to keep it from doing so?"

Glaring at Fëanáro, Glorfindel unwrapped the rope from one forearm and reached down to dig into the mud around his leg. "Hang on, I almost have it."

After a moment's pause to consider, Elrond decided it was best judgment not to inform Glorfindel that now his tunic, shirt and hair were also getting covered in mud.

"Ha!" Glorfindel pulled his boot free with a great effort, balanced for a moment, suspended... and fell sideways, boot still in his upraised hand.

Elrond spun away to hide his laugh, but Fëanáro just started to chuckle. "Nephew, really, this isn't the time for a mud bath."

Looking up, spitting mud, half his face, all the one side of his head now covered in mud, Glorfindel wished his uncle to a particularly inaccessible spot in Mandos, which made Fëanáro laugh even harder.

"I know the place," he gasped between laughing.

"Undoubtedly." Pulling against the rope to stand straight again, Glorfindel huffed and raised one mud-covered eyebrow above a brilliant blue eye. "Maybe you could encourage the horse again, Elrond? When you're done laughing, of course. Any time."

Snickering, Elrond urged the horse forward and with a great deal of sucking and slurping of the mud, Glorfindel was finally dragged free of the mud hole.

"You seem to have lost more clo-"

"Blast it!" Glorfindel leaned back toward the puddle to pull his trousers out of the mud and back up his legs where they belonged. He laid on the ground and stared up at the sky, a deep frown furrowing his brow. "I did not return for this. I really did not die and go to Mandos just so some malicious mud hole could suck me into the murky depths!"

Leaning over, Fëanáro eyed him, a bit concerned at the shouting. "Feel better?"

With an indignant huff, Glorfindel met his gaze. "You lead the way for a while."

"And watch out for elf-eating mud puddles," Elrond added with a grin.

"I think that it would be best if we stop, get a fire going and send our mud monster here off to the creek before the soil dries and becomes even harder to get off." Holding out a hand, Fëanáro helped Glorfindel stand and shook his head. "You're looking a bit worse for wear, Laurë, but at least you don't have to explain to Námo why you're back and covered in mud."

"Yes." Glorfindel snorted and pushed his mud-encrusted hair off his face. "I'll spare him having to laugh himself sick. Again." He stomp-squished away, heading for the creek.

"Again?" Elrond, rubbing the horse's head as a way of thanks, looked to Fëanáro. "Do you know the story?"

Shaking his head, Fëanáro pulled up some damp grass and cleaned his hand of the mud. "No idea, but I'd not ask for a while if I were you, Elrond." He chuckled. "He doesn't show it often, but Laurë does have the Finwian temper."

With a nod, Elrond set the horse free of the rope and began looking for materials for a fire. "I didn't want to tell him this yet, but I suspect that mud hole is actually a hunter's trap that filled with rain." He pointed. "There are signs of it being cut by a spade or some tool. I don't believe it is natural."

"Valar help the hunter if Laurë ever finds him." Fëanáro shook his head and began to clear a spot for a fire. "Not only did it nearly suck him down..." He winked at Elrond. "It muddied his hair."

"An unforgivable act," Elrond agreed with a laugh.

***

"You're deep in thought." Glorfindel returned to find a fire burning, but only Elrond tending it. "Where is Fëanáro?"

"He said he wished to clean up a bit as well and headed upstream." Looking up as Glorfindel sat, his hair still dripping but clean, Elrond sighed. "I'm worried about this upcoming meeting. When we find Maglor."

Digging through his pack, Glorfindel found his comb and began working it through his hair. "Worried about how Maglor will react or how Fëanáro will react to his son's reaction?" He grimaced as he hit a snarl and set the comb on his leg to meet Elrond's gaze. "I am concerned as well, Elrond, but there is no stopping him. He needs to find his son, and I understand that, but..." Shaking his head, Glorfindel went back to combing. "How do you expect Maglor to react?"

Thinking of the last time he had seen Maglor, Elrond sighed and dug his stick into the coals, stirring them to flame. "I think Fëanáro believes his son will be glad to see him."

"That he does not think of all that has passed since they last were together?" Glorfindel shook his head. "I don't believe that is true."

"I don't think he is anticipating how ..." Elrond stopped, unwilling to betray Maglor at all, but finding confessing his feelings a relief. "Maglor has been through too much. Losing Maedhros at the last, it traumatized him even moreso than losing his younger brothers."

"You think him not entirely sane?"

"Is it so surprising?" Elrond frowned, ready to defend Maglor, but realized it was compassion in Glorfindel's gaze, not accusation.

"Finding him sane and rational would be surprising to me," he said gently. "Elrond, I vividly recall the retreat after the Nirnaeth and how unreal it all seemed. We rode away and left Hurin and Huor to a certain and horrific death. Turgon was in shock at Fingon's death, and desperate to return to Gondolin." He looked down at his hands, still expecting to see the fine white scars from that fight that had marred his skin until his death. He drew in a deep breath and raised his eyes. "None of us were sane upon returning from that, and that was just one battle."

Elrond nodded as he met the gaze that suddenly seemed eons older than it had just a moment before. "The battles with the enemy damage our fëar in ways we don't entirely understand, I think." He let his mind drift back to his younger self, and how restless and edgy Maedhros and Maglor had been at times, even when it was peaceful. "The memories, the smells and sounds, they haunt us, even at the best times."

"Fëanáro knows that." Glorfindel's voice was very quiet, barely loud enough to be heard over the song of the crickets. "But he has a father's hope, a father's heart and desperately wants to help Maglor."

Elrond spread his hands. "Maglor might not welcome it."

"It does not stop his wanting it all the same." Standing, Glorfindel looked up at the stars and sighed. "I think this is part of his healing, finding Maglor. Whether it goes well or not, he must see it through."

"Námo releases those who are not entirely healed?"

A snort and Glorfindel dropped his comb back in his pack. "He would have to hold us forever if he wanted us healed entirely. Arda is full of hurts and life is not always kind." His stomach chose that moment to grumble and Glorfindel offered a rueful smile. "Do we have anything to eat?"

***

“Storm is coming.”

“Not again,” groaned Glorfindel, following Elrond’s gaze on the dark clouds gathering over the sea. He sighed exasperatedly. “We really did anger Ossë, didn’t we.”

“Or it is just time for summer storms around here.” Elrond shrugged. “Anyway, we should head away from the sea. Just in case.”

“I agree.” Fëanáro looked warily at the waves rising higher and higher, splashing forcefully against the cliffs. The land that had once been here must have fallen deep, as if cut by a giant hammer. Oh, Nerdanel would have loved those rocks, he remembered how excited she was whenever they came across a rock that would be a suitable material for her sculptures. ‘ _Well, she will never make THOSE rocks alive,_ ’ thought Fëanáro grimly. He shook his head and turned away from the accursed waters, when something caught his attention. He froze, unable or unwilling to move.

“Fëanáro?” His companions stopped and turned towards him, but he just stared ahead.

Finally breaking from his reverie, Fëanáro replied in a strangled voice. “He’s there.”

And there he was indeed, a silhouette on the edge of the cliff, singing to the raging waves below. The elf was ragged and thin, but it was definitely him. Maglor.

“Kano...” Fëanáro charged forward, but two hands grasped his arms at the same moment.

“Wait.” Elrond turned to face Fëanáro and looked straight into his blazing eyes. “We don’t want to startle him where he stands now. We need to get up on this cliff first.”

 _Don’t startle Makalaure_. Fëanáro remembered all too well that his son used to pick the weirdest places as his seat when he was composing; he even climbed one of the structural beams of the roof in the forge, claiming that he liked to listen to the noises his father’s workshops made. Fëanáro made him go down from there, afraid that the boy would fall, but he still remembered clearly how carefully he approached him as not to scare him. Right now Maglor wasn’t probably standing at the very edge, but the distance made it look so, and Fëanáro was not about to take any chances. Not now.

They turned right to find a way that would be easy enough for their horses to climb the dunes before they turned into sharp-edged cliffs. There was a pine forest that would shelter them both from the growing wind and from Maglor’s sight. Fëanáro hated the idea of creeping on his own son as if they were trying to hunt him down, but he reluctantly acknowledged that Maglor was likely to leave if startled. Keeping an eye on the silhouette at the cliffs, they tended to the horses to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it seems Feanaro will finally get to meet his son.  
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fëanáro finally gets what he's been waiting for all these chapters. Funny how things never quite work out as we hope...

**Chapter XI**

 

They waited painfully long, until the worsening weather made Maglor abandon his spot on the cliff and back farther into land, between the first trees.

“Can we go now?” asked Fëanáro, his patience growing thin. To be so close and sit idly... He had had enough of that in the halls of Mandos, watching his boys fail and fall and being unable to aid them.

“I don’t think...” started Glorfindel, but the glare he was given just made him stop and sigh.

“You will talk soon.” Elrond stepped in, tying his horse to the nearest tree. “All I ask is that you wait a moment longer and let me speak with Maglor first. My presence may not be something he would expect, but is easy to explain. You, on the other hand...”

It was clear Elrond asked a lot, but Fëanáro finally nodded. “Go ahead. We’ll follow you close.”

At first they intended to stay by the horses and wait for Elrond to return, but that just did not work with Fëanáro. As soon as Elrond disappeared between the trees, Fëanáro followed him quietly, careful to stay out of sight, but desperate to be close enough to hear and see his son. Glorfindel joined him as soon as he made sure their horses would not wander off during their absence.

Elrond walked straight were Maglor had vanished, making no attempt to conceal his presence. Finally Maglor reached a small clearing between the trees. There was a pile of rocks securing it from one side, with an extinguished fire on the ground.

“Maglor."

The elf paused and turned around, a dagger in his hand. He nearly dropped it as Elrond emerged from between the trees. Glorfindel placed a hand on Fëanáro’s shoulder to stop him from following Elrond immediately.

“Elrond?” he uttered, lowering his hand, but then his expression went blank. “Oh, it’s you again. You look older. Last time you were small.”

“Last time?” repeated Elrond carefully. “I have not seen you in millennia.”

“You come and go and I have no saying in this.” Maglor shook his head and moved, intending to pass Elrond. “Go. I’m not in the mood.”

As he walked on, Elrond put his hand on his shoulder. “Nay. I have spent too much time searching for you to go now. And I am glad to have found you.”

A variety of emotions flashed through Maglor’s face. Surprise and longing, but also grief and suspicion, as if he was afraid the meeting would fade into nothingness at any moment. He reached his left hand and curled his long fingers around Elrond’s wrist resting on his shoulder, then froze as Elrond put an arm around him and pulled him into a short embrace.

“What are you doing here?” he rasped. “You should not be here, your place is with Ereinion.”

“I have been looking for you with the king’s blessing,” Elrond smiled friendly; there were things he could forget mentioning for now. “I bring you news.”

“Ereinion Gil-galad is still a king, is he not?” asked Maglor; Elrond nodded. “Then I doubt he sent you to find me. That would be naive of me to assume such a thing.”

“And yet here I am, Maglor. And,” Elrond braced himself. “Your father has come back to life. And to Middle-earth.”

A loud, grim laughter broke the howling of the wind and the distant splashing of the violent waves. Maglor shook his head.

“Well, this is a novelty, but I am not that insane to believe you.”

“You wouldn’t be the first one doubting your senses in that matter. Or Lord Námo’s,” muttered Elrond. “But Celebrimbor and Galadriel confirmed his identity. He and Glorfindel of Gondolin came a few months ago.”

“Nay, Elrond. I appreciate your attempt to amuse me, but I am not going to believe you.”

That was it. Fëanáro shook off Glorfindel’s hand. "You don't need to take his word for that. Just see for yourself." He walked from between the trees and stopped into plain view, but not too close. "Just see, Makalaurë."

Maglor stared, wide-eyed and Fëanáro froze like he would when taming a wild animal. Glorfindel came too, but he kept his distance. Elrond raised his hand warningly, but Fëanáro had no intention to move any closer. He just stood and let his son watch him.

"You've never come before," said Maglor carefully in Quenya. "I have never seen you here, Atar."

Fëanáro's heart broke at that. Still, he kept his voice even as he replied.

"The others were not real."

A long silence that came after was so intense that many would have fled, but not them. They had spent too much time searching for him.

"Where are they? Where are the others?" asked Maglor finally in a raspy voice. He looked around, as if half expecting to see his brothers. "Where is Nelyo?" he growled. "Where is he?!" his voice broke into a scream so powerful that all the elves winced at the rage and grief pierced them; all, including Fëanáro. Which was his mistake.

Maglor charged forward so swiftly that Elrond had no chance to grab him. His thin fingers grasped his father’s arms with such strength that Fëanáro doubted he would be able to break free without doing something that would hurt his son. Maglor shook him violently, then suddenly let him go so abruptly that Fëanáro almost lost his balance.

"You are real."

"I am," nodded Fëanáro; after what Maglor just did with the power of his voice, staying calm and composed required a lot of effort. As did keeping his face blank with the pounding he could still feel in his temples. "I am here, Kano."

"You're here. You're out. You're alive." A bitter laugh escaped his dry lips, but this time Maglor controlled himself more. He met Fëanáro's gaze. "So, where are my brothers? Where is Nelyo?"

Fëanáro did not flinch or move away, though he had rarely faced someone using the power of his voice on him and doing so in such an unstable manner.

"They are all still in the halls of Mandos, as I was told," he replied quietly. "Nelyo is there too."

As soon as he finished talking, he wished he had not answered. Gone was the flicker of hope he caught in Maglor's eyes. Gone were emotions, his son yet again looked like an indifferent shell.

"Then you may leave too," he whispered and turned towards Elrond. A ghost of a forced smile played on his lips. "I am glad I could see you again, alive. Now leave. Pass my greetings to Elros if you see him." His hand brushed against Elrond's arm as Maglor passed by him. He made a few steps, then turned and his eyes, now dull, fell on each of the three elves. "If you don't go, then I will," he muttered as if to himself and, seeing that none of them moved, he picked his pack and his bow.

Fëanáro shook his head and winced at the pain creeping behind his eyes. Maglor was still strong, but he would be damned if he was going to let his son walk away just like that. He made a step, intending to follow Maglor, when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Don't." Glorfindel looked at him with sympathy, but his voice was cold as steel. "You won't get through to him right now if Elrond could not. Let him be."

Maglor behaved as if they were not there at all. He calmly collected some of his belongings and left towards the sea without sparing them a second glance. Fëanáro moved to follow him, but again Glorfindel grasped him.

"I will go. He's not leaving this place permanently," he pointed at the bedroll and blankets hidden in a small cave where rain could not reach it. Maglor took none of them. "Let me try to talk to him."

***

Maglor didn't go far. Glorfindel found him sitting up on the cliff with his legs pulled up to his chest. He was humming a song that sounded like dirge and Glorfindel wouldn't want to hear the words as well. He approached him slowly, careful not to startle him, as the edge was near and the cliff was high enough to make the potential fall dangerous.

"May I join you?"

"Why do you even bother asking?" Maglor just shrugged. "You won't leave either way."

"I won't," agreed Glorfindel lightly. "But perhaps I won't be such a dreadful company." He sat on a rock, facing Maglor. "Cousin," he risked a brief smile, but didn't push any more.

They sat like that for quite some time, watching seagulls flying above the sea and listening to their cries and the roaring of the water. It would have been a peaceful spot if not for the grief hanging in the air and the coming storm.

"I wrote a song about you," said Maglor suddenly. His voice was still blank, deprived of any feelings. "The boys spoke about you and asked me, so I wrote them a song. It was a glorious end for a hero."

Glorfindel flinched. The last thing he ever wished to hear was a song about his fight with the Balrog. Those memories were still too terrifying and he did not want to relive the duel again.

"I have no song of glory for Nelyo," whispered Maglor. He stared at the sea as if he did not notice he had company. "I have no songs of heroism for my fallen brothers."

"You may still sing about them," suggested Glorfindel carefully, glad that they drifted away from Balrog slaying.

Maglor laughed darkly. "You do not want to hear any of them, lest you wish to drown in sorrow and despair," he answered. "Nor should Elrond. But oh, he shall hear them! He shall hear them all and see what he had caused!"

After having just witnessed what Maglor could unintentionally do with his voice, Glorfindel almost pitied Fëanáro if he was indeed going to listen to his son's laments, but he was glad Maglor seemed unwilling to burden Elrond, so perhaps they would be spared. For now.

"Here. Try that." Glorfindel reached for a small canteen he had by his belt and passed it to Maglor. "I dare say it’s been long since you last had a decent wine.” He wished he had miruvor with him, but the small amount they possessed was still in Elrond’s saddlebag.

Maglor took the canteen and sniffled it. He took a sip and nodded in approval. “That’s good.”

“I don’t know how you feel about the coming storm, but I’d rather not face it right here,” remarked Glorfindel. “Do you know of any place where we could hide with four horses? We need to go back to them and I doubt Fëanáro has moved to do so since you left.”

“I do,” nodded Maglor, ignoring the comment about his father. “Let’s go, the horses should not have to face the storm."

***

The rain caught them as they reached the cave Maglor pointed as an appropriate place to wait out the pouring. Looking outside at the wall of water, Maglor hesitated before going out to go to his usual hiding place. That was enough for Elrond to grasp his hand.

"Stay," he asked softly.

And so he did, though he tried to keep close to the wall and observed in silence as the three elves worked on preparing a camp in the narrow cave. The wood they managed to grasp on their way was fortunately dry, so they lit a small fire by the entrance and soon the cave was filled with the smell of food.

Stirring the pot, Elrond cast a quick glance at Fëanáro, who had up till now kept himself busy, but was presently on the opposite side of the fire and eyeing his son, who seemed not to notice his existence. It was only a matter of time before he would try to approach Maglor again.

They sat together for the meal, the awkward silence stretching and slowly becoming hard to bear. Maglor joined them after another moment of hesitation, as if sharing a fire and a meal was a foreign concept, but he sat next to Elrond and accepted dinner.

"So? How come you are out here again?" Maglor surprised them all by actually being the one who started the conversation in the silence that was growing thick. He was looking at Glorfindel with visible curiosity, nibbling at the food.

Putting his own bowl aside, Glorfindel flashed him a cheerful smile, looking as at ease as he had been at Ereinion's ball.

"You know... Old Námo too gets bored in his Halls from time to time," he replied seriously. "There was this excellent wine there, and then he got in the sporting mood... Imagine that I was better in cards."

Elrond bit his lip and reached for his canteen to hide a grin that was threatening to show on his face. Whatever Glorfindel and Maglor had talked earlier, they seemed to have got to an understanding of sorts, one Glorfindel was now using.

"And that would be a material for a song?" Maglor tilted his head, regarding his cousin thoughtfully. “Perhaps...” Then his expression hardened as he turned his gaze towards his father. “And you? Why are you here? I'm not asking why you were searching for me. Why are you in Middle-earth?"

"And here I thought I'm past answering that question," muttered Fëanáro impatiently before he could help it. "That was the only choice I was given by Námo. Be reborn and travel straight back to Middle-earth or dwell in his Halls with no hope of seeing any of you ever again."

“And have you?” Maglor's mask of indifference cracked for a moment, revealing his desperate longing. "Ammë?"

Fëanáro shook his head sadly. "I had no chance, I bring you no words from her. I wasn't given a chance to meet anyone. Not her, not Mahtan, not even Arafinwë. I am sorry, Makalaurë, I wish I had something to give you."

"Then you shouldn’t have bothered," hissed Maglor and turned away from his father.

That was too much. Fëanáro placed his unfinished bowl aside with a loud clang and sprang on his feet. He stormed outside, right into the raging storm.

Elrond and Glorfindel exchanged helpless glances, but Maglor seemed unmoved. He relaxed once his father vanished and picked his food. Elrond had a feeling he would just ignore their company, so he risked a question.

“What made you wait for us, Maglor?”

“I didn’t,” snapped the singer angrily.

“We spoke with Gildor and his company. They mentioned hearing you from time to time, but never finding.”

Maglor hesitated, but then he nodded slightly. “I felt Ossë’s rage and the wind carried a Song that calmed him. I thought I heard your voice in this song, though much more powerful than I remembered,” he said, his mind wandering some distant places beyond Elrond’s reach. “I guess I hoped…Never mind. I shouldn’t have,” he hissed angrily. “You’ll be gone by morning, or as soon as the rain stops.”

“That may not be so,” replied Elrond carefully. He was first to admit the atmosphere, as it was, was unbearable, with both father and son radiating with grief and anger, but he was not going to just let Maglor dismiss them so after months of searching. “There is a reason we’ve been searching for you. It would be best if you come with us.”

“Whatever for?” Maglor barked an unpleasant laugh. “I am aware I am not welcome. Nor I wish to have to deal with him,” he waved his hand towards the direction Fëanáro had gone.

***

 Fëanáro came back not long after dawn, looking weary and wet but determined. Before Elrond or Glorfindel could move, he strode over to where Maglor sat and stopped. Maglor didn't look up or acknowledge him and his mouth thinned. "You can ignore me, but it will not make me go away." He knelt, trying to look into Maglor's eyes, but his son just turned away. "I returned from the Halls to find you, Makalaurë. I understand you being angry." His frown said otherwise, but Fëanáro pushed on, ignoring the tightening of his son's shoulders and his fisted hands. "I cannot change what has happened! I cannot bring your brothers back."

"Then what good are you." Maglor finally turned and met his father's gaze. "What good are you, Fëanáro? Did you really expect a warm welcome after all that happened? This is a situation you cannot use words or wheedling to get your way." He stood. "Go away. I don't want to see your face."

Fëanáro stood as well, frowning. "I know this is not easy. It is not easy for me either, Makalaurë! I know I cannot make up for all that passed." He grimaced. "Or fix this, as you say. But, come with us, and give me time to-"

 “ENOUGH!” In one blurring motion, too fast for the eye to follow, Maglor pulled his sword and whirled, sword leveled at his father's throat. Eyes a cold grey, his voice was the chill of a winter storm when he spoke again. “You think I’m wounded, unable to care for myself. Mad even." He held his father's gaze, his own pitiless. "Draw your sword Fëanáro.” When his father did nothing, Maglor put Power behind his order. “ _Draw your sword_.”

Fëanáro blinked, staggered for a moment by the compulsion in the command, and slowly pulled the sword at his side free of the sheath. It was an eerie reversal of the day he had pulled live steel on his half-brother and he scowled, refusing to bring the sword up.

“Stay.” Glorfindel held Elrond’s arm in an iron grip, gaze never leaving his uncle and cousin. “Do not interfere.”

Elrond tugged against the hold once but stilled, tense and ready to leap forward if the worst happened.

“Attend me, Atar.”

Fëanáro shook his head. “Makal-“ He froze as the blade struck, swift and sure, and blood trickled from his shoulder. It was the slightest cut, a precisely given wound from the sword of a master. Eyes narrowing, Fëanáro brought his blade up to a defensive position. He had no time to say another word.

Maglor took one step forward, his sword a blur of silver, his gaze steadily holding his father’s. He easily swept his father’s sword aside, and stepped back. "You are not trying. Fight me!" A feral grin slashed his mouth when Fëanáro shook his head, but only kept his sword at the defensive. "I think you will."

It was an assault Fëanáro had never faced before, Maglor's sword a blur of motion that he was hard-pressed to shield against. Too long, it had been too long since he had held a sword with the intent to kill or defend, a lifetime ago, but for Maglor, the years had been a long, relentless lesson in survival against deadly foes. Fëanáro grimaced as the sword broke through his defenses and cut another sharp line on the same arm as before.

"You're weak on that side." Mouth a grim line, Maglor stepped back. "The enemy would exploit that and kill you." His gaze flicked to where Elrond and Glorfindel stood, watching. "I can see why you brought Elrond and Laurifindel with you." The smile curling his mouth was not kind. "A healer and one who actually managed to slay his Balrog."

Fëanáro's  mouth tightened, but he remained still, sword still at a defensive guard.

"Do you want absolution, Fëanáro? Is that why you sought me out?" Maglor shook his head, eyes pitiless. "You're too late. Eons too late! Too late for any of us!" His laugh made all of the elves flinch. "You left us to suffer an Age under that damned Oath, and we fought it, oh...we fought, but it was crafted by you, so of course it was perfect." The bitter words spilled out of Maglor as though he had hoarded them in his heart since his father's death. After the death of each brother, each one taking a part of his heart with them. "So, what shall we do now, hmm? Shall I forgive you and say all is well?"

"Makalaurë..."

Elrond swallowed hard at the agony in Fëanáro's voice, and felt Glorfindel's fingers dig into his arm.

"My name is Maglor. MAGLOR!" He screamed it and laughed as they all grimaced. "I cannot do that, Fëanáro. Not now, perhaps never." Tears glimmered in his too bright eyes. "So what then?" Without warning, he sprang forward, bright sword a blur as he began a brutal assault. For a moment it seemed he would overwhelm his father.

Glorfindel pulled in a sharp breath and drew his sword, but before he could take a step forward, Maglor slid his sword along Fëanáro's and with a flick, sent the sword spinning away. Both of them stood, chests heaving as they stared at each other; Fëanáro in shock and Maglor with an expression of horror.

"Leave me." His voice was brittle and bitter. "There is nothing here that you remember of your son."

With that, he strode away, and no one tried to stop him.

Elrond was the first to move, stepping around to come towards Fëanáro so he saw him. "Let me see to those wounds."

Still gazing after his son, brow furrowed now, Fëanáro let himself be led to a squat boulder and sat.

Glorfindel sheathed his sword and sighed before going to find Elrond's pack with his herbs and floss. His uncle's shock would wear off soon and then...

He was not going to stand there and watch more blood be shed. The family of Finwë had done enough damage to themselves. Most of that he laid at the feet of Morgoth and all the strife he stirred in Aman. Here in Middle-earth the Music might be tainted but it was still strong and Glorfindel had learned much in the years since he was re-born, some at the instruction of Maiar. He would be ready for the backlash of reaction from Fëanáro that would come as inevitably as the rising of the sun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) What did you think?


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